


A Day of Perfect Peace

by evenso



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Bank Robbery, F/M, Historically Consistent Prejudices, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, Outlaws, Prison, Slow Build, Train Hijacking, Violence, eventually there are letters, yeah both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 43
Words: 70,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenso/pseuds/evenso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have been hunted for twenty-one years, have literally lived in the saddle, have never known a day of perfect peace. It was one long, anxious, inexorable, eternal vigil." - Frank James, surrending shortly after the death of his brother Jesse</p><p>(Winchesters as bank robber outlaws.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on the James-Younger Gang, takes place from about 1866-1876.
> 
> Bank-robbing former Confederates aren't exactly PC. Please don't take any of the opinions expressed by characters as my own.

Oh yes, I met them. Not in their prime, of course. No, this was years later, when they went touring across the South, telling stories about a country that'd already disappeared. They must have been about as old as I am now. Funny - sixty seemed ancient at the time.

Still, just the sight of their names on the advertisements gave me a thrill down my spine. Real outlaws! Why, there were songs written about them! My twelve-year-old self would have given anything for the chance to hear them speak. My father, of course, wouldn't hear of it. Spend his hard-earned cash listening to how they robbed simple men like himself? No, in his opinion, it was criminal, how they were allowed to profit from their infamous names. He wouldn't be a party to it, and neither would his son.

So on the night they were scheduled to give their talk, I stood outside of town hall, watching enviously as my schoolfellows filed past, tickets in hand. The usher cast me a sympathetic glance as he closed the heavy doors in my face. I stood for a moment with my ear to the wall, but no sound escaped. Desperation made me resourceful. I went around the building and scrambled up a little hill behind it, tearing at the underbrush with my hands to keep my balance in the dark among the trees. From my new vantage point, I was just level with a little window - which showed me nothing but one of the lamps burning brightly inside. Frustrated and feeling sorry for myself, I sat down right there in the weeds, and there I stayed. I knew it was late; my mother would have called for me to come in by now. They'd know, when I didn't come, that I'd run off to the show, and my failure to see any of it wouldn't make my father any less angry with me. I was only prolonging the inevitable by staying out. Still, I waited there right through the show, staring at the glow of the hall and listening to the occasional burst of laughter or collective gasp from inside. Eventually there was a thunderous round of applause, and then the sound of voices I recognized, chattering together as they left from the front. It was over, I'd missed it, and there was really no reason not to go home now. Our farm was well out of town - the walk, long in the daylight, might stretch for hours in the dark, and as I'd sat the dew had fallen, leaving me damp and shivering. I thought I was just about the unluckiest boy in the state, right then.

Before I could gather the spirits to stand, however, a carriage rolled around to the back of the hall, right below my hill. The back door opened, and out stepped two figures, silhouetted against the light from inside. I couldn't see faces, but one was tall and one short, and as they stepped forward towards the carriage, I saw that the short one walked wih a limp. It was them! I bolted up in excitement, rustling and crushing the brush underfoot.

The two forms below me snapped to attention, blinded by the light but scanning in my general direction. Neither called out a challenge. Instead I heard the distinct sound of pistols being cocked.

"Don't shoot!" I shouted down at them, suddenly glad I still had a child's voice. "It's only me!"

"Get down here," a deep voice growled. I did.

As soon as I came into view, they relaxed. I saw the light flash off a pistol as they tucked them away again. Their driver looked wide-eyed, obviously as frightened as I was. Or had been - as the threat receded, the picture in my mind's eye had shifted from my funeral to the envious eyes of my schoolmates come Monday morning. So what if they'd seen the show? I'd nearly been killed!

"Damn good way to get shot, boy. What were you doing up there?"

"My father wouldn't let me come and see you. I thought I might be able to see something through the windows - but I couldn't."

"It's late. He'll tan your hide now, won't he?"

"Let him. I don't care." Later I would, but then I felt daring, like their old wildness was catching. It raised a chuckle from them.

"Get in. We'll drive you home."

"Really?"

"You're wet through, kid, liable to catch your death if we don't."

"Thanks!" I hoped fervently that we'd pass stragglers on the road, or my friends would never believe me.

They moved easily together, but slowly, stiffly. The taller took all the weight of his crippled friend as he half-supported, half-shoved him up into the high seat. Tactless as only a boy can be, I stared.

"Is that from Northfield?" They exchanged a long glance before he nodded. "Must've been exciting," I prompted.

His eyes flashed with disapproval, and he scowled at me. "Excitement's easy to find, kid, and easy to regret once you got it. You look like you got a nice peaceful little town here. Take my advice: stick to it."

"That's not what you did."

"Exactly. Don't tell the paying customers or it'll spoil the illusion, but I'd exchange with any of them in an instant. I've got a hell of a lot of regrets." His expression turned thoughtful, and he looked back to his partner as if asking for help. "And yet I'll be damned if I see what I could have done instead..."


	2. Chapter 2

At twenty, Gabriel Milton was a skilled man. He could shoot accurately from the back of a galloping horse, live undetected in the woods for weeks, remove bullets without killing someone from infection, stitch both clothing and flesh. He could tell at a glance whether a dead man's boots were likely to fit. He could take a scalp.

In May 1865, he turned twenty-one. The war was lost, and Gabe's skills weren't worth shit.

*********************************************

Lee surrendered back east, but that didn't mean much across the Mississippi, especially not to bushwhackers like the Winchesters, who'd never answered to a general anyway. Of course they'd known things were bad. They read the papers, when they could come across them, and they could see the way the tide had turned. Their old commander, Bloody Bill, had been under the ground for a while now. Most of the old company had left to join other raiding parties. Some had just given up and ridden back to their farms. The Winchesters stayed, but there were more Federals all the time. No town was safe anymore. They went deeper into the woods, spending weeks without speaking to anyone other than each other. They never even heard that Smith had surrendered his command, that Shelby and his men had ridden across the border into Mexico, swearing never to give themselves up. The Winchesters probably weren't the last active Confederates in Missouri, but they might have come close.

They weren't caught in the woods. If they could have lived there forever, Dean's pretty sure they'd never have been caught at all. Bullets don't grow on trees, though, and between Dean's big mouth and Sam's height, everyone in the county knows the Winchester boys. Someone must have run to tell the Federals when they showed up. Damn traitors. 

The ambush happened on their way back, just outside of town. It was a well-chosen place, Dean'll give them that - isolated, no chance of sympathetic men to help, no women or children to get caught in the crossfire. They'd managed to pull up before they were surrounded, but somehow, Dean knew this was it. It felt different. Calm.

Still, Dean couldn't just put down his gun.

"Goddamn, Sammy, you kill one of these sons of bitches and two pop up in his place. It's like a - what's the name, there's a story about a bugger like that."

"You mean a hydra?"

"Yeah, sure. It don't seem hardly worth the trouble to kill you boys. Tell you what, get on out of the road now, and we won't shoot."

The officer in front of them snorted. "Don't you idiots know you lost?" The look on their faces gave them away, and he laughed, "You didn't, did you?"

It happened fast. Dean had his mouth open, ready to curse them again, if only out of spite. But before he could speak, Sam let his gun fall to his side and kicked his horse forward - and a twitchy, green recruit pulled the trigger. He hit Sam in the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- The Civil War lasted from 1861 to 1865, and it averaged 600 deaths per day, coming out to around 900,000 people. To put that into perspective, roughly 1,000,000 people died in the wars in Sudan from 1983 to 2005. There is a lot, lot, lot of death for four years.
> 
> 2- In Missouri, and right across the border in Kansas, it's not as simple as North vs. South. It's mostly neighbor vs. neighbor. There are no rules about who you can kill out here - women and children are fair game. So are torture and mutilation. In a country where 600 people are dying a day, this is the scariest place in the country to be. It's BAD.
> 
> 3- Gabriel sees being able to "take a scalp", aka peel a dead enemy's skin and hair off his head to carry around as a trophy, as a skill because both sides did this in the border conflicts. The group I've placed him with was notorious for it.
> 
> 4- "Bushwhackers" are Confederate guerrilla fighters.


	3. Chapter 3

Peacetime didn't sit well with a lot of men. The war had split the county in half just about evenly. People'd fought with the special viciousness of rival siblings, the kind of personal, intimate hate only neighbors can feel. No matter what they said in Washington, out here the same people still despised each other, and they were still armed. Monkers couldn't keep his mouth shut and was shot dead on his own front porch. Clement robbed a bank, then got himself shot in a bar, resisting arrest. They say he died still trying to cock his pistol with his teeth. The whole thing was so stupid Gabe suspected he never intended to get out alive. On the other hand, some men slipped right back into peacetime routines as if they'd never slept rough. Crowley practically scrambled to take the loyalty oath. He went straight into politics, the old snake. One way or another, the people Gabe had answered to died or fell away. No one was in charge. And then Gabe was in charge.

*******************************************

"Ow, fuck! Goddammit, Bobby, you could have warned me!"

Dean should probably tell Sam to shut up. Bobby's a good man, loyal to the cause, but more importantly, loyal to the Winchesters. Still, it's not exactly safe to be harboring them at the moment, and Bobby has a business to run besides. There are limits to the old man's patience that Sam shouldn't be trying by cursing him while he cleans his wounds.

Instead, Dean tips his chair back onto two legs, props his feet up on the bottom railing of Sam's bed, stares at the ceiling, and lets the sound of Sam's voice, raw with frustration, wash over him. He never thought he'd get to hear Sam bitch again.

After Sam was shot, Dean doesn't remember much about how they got back into town. Sam passed out quickly. Dean has memories, alright, the sharpest he's ever had, ones he probably won't ever be able to scrub out of his brain. They just don't string together all that well. He remembers seeing Sam fall backwards, remembers his own knees hitting the ground as he pulled Sam up towards him, remembers the Federals' commanding officer shouting for them to hold their fire. Then there's this long period of riding back into town, surrounded by blue uniforms. They weren't five minutes away, but in his memory it might be hours he spent listening to the birds in the trees, wondering inanely about how quiet the world was, how the birds just kept singing. His arm ached from how tightly he pressed his own shirt to Sam's chest. Fresh blood is hot; Dean of all people knows this well. But it was never Sammy's blood before, and he remembers being surprised to discover it all over again, that his brother's blood is hot and wet and spreading sickeningly under his hand. Behind him the boy that shot was anxious, saying he didn't know the man was surrendering, asking if he'd be tried for murder. Dean heard the words but couldn't decipher them until later, after the adrenaline wore off. He remembers that the doctor's hands trembled a bit, probably because he was nervous after being called to the town's one jail cell, and because Dean stood too close and threatened to kill him barehanded if he didn't fix Sam. He took out the bullet and stitched him up - thank God that boy couldn't aim - but he said Sam'd need careful nursing for quite some time. Dean thought, well, then I'll make damn sure he has it.

After that, the narrative thread comes back to his memories, like the purpose came back to his life. He can still hear his father's voice, gruff and accompanied by the jingle of the bridle as he got ready to ride off - "Look after your brother, boy." Everything else John Winchester said is still there too, rattling around Dean's head, honor, self-reliance, how to shoot - but the CSA is dead and so is his father, and Sam isn't yet. It's that simple.

When that Federal officer came back in, Dean said a quiet prayer of thanks his father wasn't around to see this, and then he spontaneously renounced everything that had been drilled into him since childhood, everything he'd fought for over the last four years. Then he added that his brother was dying, and he'd like to take him home. A native wouldn't have believed a word of it, not coming out of a Winchester. But this Northerner didn't know any better, and he felt sorry for what had happened. Dean put his hand on a Bible he doesn't believe in and swore an oath of loyalty to a union he doesn't believe in, and that's perjury and probably some kind of sacrilege too, but hell, what's one more mark on a soul as black as his. The officer let them go.

They didn't leave the jail, though. It was obvious to Dean this town hated them, but fortunately, the jailor didn't relish the idea of a lynching. They stayed in protective custody while Dean sent word to Bobby's smithy on the other side of the county. Bobby showed up with a cart at midnight, whispering furiously about "idjits", and they crept out of town and were installed in the back of Bobby's house that same night. They've been there ever since. Dean daren't show his face at a window, and Sam's still on bed rest, if only because he can't actually stand long without someone's shoulder to lean on.

Nothing's wrong with his brain, though, Dean thinks with a laugh, thumping his chair back to the floor. Bobby's done cleaning the wound, but Sam, bored and frustrated, is still going strong, spitting out curses like he's cataloguing them all. He's exhausted his English vocabulary, so Dean guesses what he's saying now is Latin. Dean quit going to school sometime around sixteen, but Sam used to stay up late by the fire, ruining his eyes over his books. At one point he wanted to read law. Maybe he still can.

As for Dean, well - he’s not sure what he’ll do. Technically, he’s got land. Sam, despite his upbringing, is a town boy. The old family place is Dean’s alone, because he’s the only one that’ll have it. The house has been empty for two years; he doesn’t like to think about the state it’ll be in. The fields, assuming no one’s burned them out of spite, will be choked with weeds. But that might not be a problem, because there’s no way Dean can cultivate them, not like they were before. Their place wasn’t a plantation by any means, just some tobacco fields and eight field slaves to work them, but it was a pretty decent living. The smartest thing to do would probably be to sell it, but he’d starve first. His parents are buried there.

He won’t starve, though. Dean’s under no illusions about himself. He knows he’s full of shit, but there’s that saying about what rises to the top. Sam will be fine because Dean will damn well make sure he is. Dean will be fine because he just always is. 

So right now, he’s taking it easy. He’s sleeping till noon and eating Bobby out of house and home. He’s listening to Sam argue and complain and demand details of the shooting that Dean is not going to explain he can’t remember either. He’s soaking this in, before Sam goes on to whatever and Bobby tires of him hanging around. When he has to, he’ll think of something to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- When anything sounds particularly dramatic or gruesome in this story, you can probably assume it's true. Seriously: supposedly Archie Clement really did die trying to cock his pistol with his teeth. I couldn't make that shit up.
> 
> 2- The oath Dean swears: Confederates had to swear an oath of loyalty to the Union if they wanted to be allowed back into normal life. In an honor-based culture, this is a big deal, and a lot of them never did it. Dean doesn't hesitate.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s something soothing about even the most disturbing routine. Gabe splits the takings in the woods and everyone scatters, disappearing between the trees. Only Balthazar follows Gabe home, because it’s not like he has anywhere else to go. When they reach the house, Gabe’s little brother Cas is sitting on the porch steps in the dark, waiting for them. He hurries up to take their reins, and Gabe and Balt heft feed sacks that jingle into the house. Inside, his sister Anna has kept something warm for them to eat. She eyes their take, mentally calculating where she can hide it, but doesn’t bother attempting it that night. Her favorite places are in her bedroom, and this late she doesn’t want to disturb their half-brother, Alfie, sleeping in his little truckle bed. Cas comes in and takes his accustomed place by Gabe, silently watching and listening as the men give Anna a much abbreviated version of the night’s events, until Gabe declares it time to go to bed. No matter hard his blood pounded earlier, Gabe sleeps soundly on these nights. This is the power of routine.

On nights when Gabe hasn’t been out late, he doesn’t sleep so well. He lays in his bed listening to Cas breathe across the room, and his mind cycles through a list.

Although he knows it’s a vain distinction, what he lists are the reasons he isn’t a common thief. He would never have done this before the war. It would have been unthinkable. Partly because he would have felt guilty. Gabe can reason and weasel his way out of most of what the Bible says, but “thou shalt not steal” is pretty clear-cut. He’s got less of a conscience, these days. Partly because it would have landed him in jail. Well, he’s been there. It’s not so bad. But mostly because it would have been completely unnecessary. His take of the last job was $2,000. It’s not pocket change, to be sure, but it’s a sliver of what the Miltons used to have.

Gabe tries not to think about what could have been. He’s not the boy he used to be, and he’s not sure that, even if he could get back all he’s lost, he would be able to live easily with it. He’s not sure he would want it. But it sure as hell pisses him off that he can’t have it.

Charles Milton was one of those men they call a gentleman farmer. He had good land, fine horses, house and field slaves, and enough ready cash to be constantly improving and expanding his house. He needed the space, because he was the father of six children - Michael, Luke, Gabe, Anna, and Cas with his first wife, and baby Alfie with his second. Both Mrs. Miltons were buried under elaborate monuments in the church cemetery, and he had to take care, on occasion, to duck calculating widows who wanted to be the third. He preferred the quieter pace of the country, but he had business in town, too. He owned the livery stable, providing horses and carriages for hire, and he was also the proprietor of the dry goods store. In addition to the other various things he oversaw, Gabe’s father was a postman, and he once served a term as deputy mayor.

Gabe understands that someone that prosperous provokes jealousy. But it’s hard to imagine anyone really having the heart to be angry at “Chuck”, as everyone down to the schoolboys called him. Gabe’s father seemed to be successful in spite of himself. He was melancholy, soft-hearted, and prone to drink, easy to confuse or intimidate. He gave away money to anyone who asked, and when his customers cheated him or his slaves stole his silver, he just pretended it hadn’t happened.

As children, Gabe and his siblings took ruthless advantage. As teenagers, though, it rankled. Their cook would scold his father like a child, and he’d duck his head and apologize, and Gabe would think, he’s speaking to his property, for God’s sake. He could show a little backbone.

Chuck Milton took a stand on only one thing. He was a traditionalist when it came to government. He believed in states’ rights. When things began to heat up just across the border in Kansas, he started speaking up. Characteristically, he did so only in print. He wrote pamphlets for distribution. He didn’t approve of the violence some of his neighbors advocated, but he despised the violence of the militant abolitionists rabble-rousing there. 

John Brown had the distinction of being the only person Gabe ever heard his father curse, and that was only in private. His father had been talking to Michael and Luke about the Pottowatomie Massacre, and Gabe, who normally ignored all discussion of politics, had been struck by the story. Brown and his followers had gone around to some of his enemies’ houses in the middle of the night, taken them from their wives and children, and hacked them to death with swords. Michael instantly damned them all. Luke pointed out that it was retribution for the Sack of Lawrence, and sure, the pro-slavery activists hadn’t killed anyone, but they’d completely destroyed the presses and a hotel. Quietly but decisively, Gabe’s father said, “Are you comparing that to cold-blooded killing? Shut your mouth, Luke. John Brown is a murdering son of a bitch, and I pray to God he hangs.” He did, eventually. Michael and Luke argued over it. His father wrote a celebratory pamphlet.

Not long afterwards, Chuck Milton disappeared. He left one morning headed for Kansas City on business, but never arrived. The facts were worrying - he’d had $1,500 on him, and not a fighting bone in his body. Michael and Luke decided to follow his route, stopping at every town or farm along the way to ask for information. They were successful. Some abolitionists nearby had talked of killing a pro-slavery supporter who’d been too vocal for their tastes; they had a suspicious amount of ready cash, and under pressure, they led the Milton brothers to where they’d hidden Chuck’s body. He’d been shot three times in the back. The murderers were arrested, but that night the jailer “forgot” to secure the jail, conveniently allowing a lynch mob access. Though they never said so, Gabe assumes his brothers were among the group that hung them outside of town.

Michael wanted to take Chuck back and bury him with his wives, but Luke said no, not with the way tempers were running these days. There might be retribution for their retribution. People might knock over his monument or desecrate his grave. In the end, Luke won, and they buried him in a hidden spot that only the two of them knew.

They fought about it, though, that night and the next and the next, just one of the many subjects, from politics to business, on which they couldn’t see eye to eye. Their father had kept them in check, but without him to make the final decision, the fights turned nasty. Gabe tried to mediate between Luke’s icy, bitter humor and Michael’s terrible fiery wrath. He wasn’t particularly good at it, and they blackened each other’s eyes fairly often.

That spring, war caught, like a fever that only infected young men. Missouri said it would be an “armed neutral”, but nothing had been neutral in those parts for a good long while. Neighbors went around eyeing each other suspiciously, like a plague was among them and they were waiting to see who was carrying it. The Miltons were definitely infected. Michael enlisted with the Missouri State Guard. A few weeks later, neutrality fell apart, Michael was officially a rebel, and Luke left for the nearest Federal regiment. The Battle of Wilson’s Creek was fought on August 10th. Gabe had a brother on either side, and neither of them survived.

Gabe was seventeen, too young to be running anything, but things are different in wartime. There were horses, slaves, crops, and business ledgers, his brothers’ things laying in their rooms, angry and sympathetic neighbors, letters to answer, solutions to find for destroyed markets and impassable roads. Most of the time Gabe managed to keep his head above water, but late one night sitting up over some papers he started gasping as if he was actually drowning, and knew he had to get away. He joined up with Quantrill’s raiders. The immediacy of guerilla warfare was a relief.

In 1863, the Federals evicted four entire counties, including his own. General Order 11 was actually helpful to bushwhackers like him - living off the land is a lot easier when no one is around to guard the chickens - but he knew that for his family, it would mean total destruction. If the slaves hadn’t already run, they certainly would now. The Federals would burn what they couldn’t take. And besides - his sister would have just reached seventeen, his remaining brothers only thirteen and five. He didn’t like to think about what might happen to them on the road by themselves. He didn’t return home, though. If they were still there, his presence would endanger them. If they weren’t - well, he just didn’t want to see what was left.

Anna and the boys left with an elderly neighbor, and stayed with his daughter in Texas for a while. When the general order was rescinded, though, they came back. They cobbled together a shack down the hill from their burnt-out house, and they grew vegetables. 

Gabe found them that way after the war, when he’d run out of other places to go. He didn’t recognize Cas, and Alfie didn’t know him. Anna almost slammed the door in his face, and Gabe has to admit that was justified. He’s pretty sure the only reason she didn’t kick him out was because he was a strong back and a pair of hands, and God knows those are in short supply.

During the day, Gabe is taught the basics of subsistence farming by his little sister. Sometimes at night, he risks his neck for as much cash as his father used to carry in his pockets. It helps. The shack is now a simple house. They grow enough food to keep them going. Gabe won Alfie’s love with a slingshot, and Cas doesn’t talk much, but he spends most of his time following him around. Sometimes when he and Balthazar joke around, Anna joins in the laughter.

The past is dead and buried in graves Gabe doesn’t even know how to find. The present could be worse. The future exists. Gabe knows enough to be content.

**************************************

“Dean. How did we get out of jail?”

“You know me, Sammy, I’ve got a million tricks up my sleeve.”

“You took the oath. Didn’t you?”

“...what do you want me to say?”

“How could you do that?”

“Would you rather have died of infection, Sam? Cause I don’t think prison agrees with chest wounds. I took it and I told ‘em you were dyin’, and they let us go. And here you are, so excuse me if I ain’t too sorry about it. Besides, the war’s over.”

“Not for me, it isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- John Brown is the militant anti-slavery activist who later led the raid on Harper's Ferry. He really did murder those people. How you feel about him is really up to how far you think it's right to go in the name of justice.
> 
> 2- General Order 11 - the Union evicted the entire civilian population of four counties of Missouri to try and kill guerrilla support. It backfired, and they took it back.


	5. Chapter 5

Gabe’s little routine is shot all to hell.

The house is dark as they gallop up, which is either a very good or a very bad sign. From Cas’ usual spot he can hear them coming before he can see them; he would have been able to tell that the riders were coming hard, not bothering to be stealthy. The Miltons didn’t get this far by being trusting, especially not on one of Gabe’s nights. They would have blown out the lamps and knelt on the floor, below the level of the windows. They could be in there right now, holding their breath, shotguns ready. In that case, Gabe shouldn’t sneak up there, not unless he’d like to accidentally draw their fire.

On the other hand, tonight’s robbery went so horribly wrong that Gabe’s not sure they weren’t expected. As long as no one knew he was behind it, his family was safe, but if someone’s informed on him - well, everyone knows where the Miltons live. They’d come to the house to ambush him, but Anna, and especially Cas, wouldn’t stand for that. If there was a struggle, if they needed to shut them up - his family could already be dead in the darkness of the house, laying alongside a posse come to lynch him. If that’s true, his only chance of survival is to sneak up and get a look at them before they see him.

Gabe decides to go with optimism. He calls out, “Cas? Anna?”

Cas’ familiar form steps out into a sliver of moonlight from behind the house. He doesn’t say anything, but he lowers his gun.

“It’s just Balt and me. Are y’all alright?”

“Yes, are you?”

“We will be. Hurry up, help us.”

“Wait, I have to go get Anna and Alfie.”

“Where are they?”

“In the woods.”

“Alright, get them. Hurry. We need to look like we’ve been home all night. The sheriff’ll be along soon.”

If they haven’t yet, there’s no one coming to kill him in the night. Apparently his neighbors have decided to trust in the rule of law. If Jimmy lives, he won’t give anyone else away, but he’s not sure if anyone else was arrested, and there’s a boy or two he doesn’t trust not to crack under the pressure. His reputation might keep them silent - but then again, it might also be his undoing. Gabe’s war career is well-known in this area. He fought with Clement, and though he wasn’t fool enough to get involved in that last wild hold-up of his, Clement’s friends were Gabe’s friends, and they were bank robbers. The sheriff is going to have to show up by morning at the latest or face accusations that he’s been bought off. Gabe is going to have to look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and cross his fingers.

“So we’ll be waiting it out, then?”

Balt looks like he could be talking about a rain shower. Gabe thinks he might actually be able to keep butter cool. He feels a flash of gratitude for his strangely loyal ally, and nods. 

“That alright with you?”

“That’s fine. I’d suggest keeping the women and children away from the windows. Just in case.”

“Good idea.”

The one piece of luck they’ve had tonight is that their take - what little they managed to grab - is in bonds, light and easy to hide. While they’re unsaddling their horses, Gabe and Balt bury them under the hay.

By the time they’re done, Cas is back in the house, lighting the lamps once again. Anna is hurrying towards the house with a lamp, dragging a silent and wide-eyed Alfie by the hand. She shoos him into the house in front of her.

“Go on now, baby, back to bed. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She doesn’t follow, though. Instead she rounds on Gabe and Balt, blocking the door and keeping Alfie, and to a certain extent Cas, from hearing her fierce whispers.

“Swear to me on your rotten souls that if I go into that house I won’t be trapped there.”

“What?”

Anna rolls her eyes. “As if you don’t know all about this kind of thing. If I go into that building, it’ll be only if you swear to me that no one is coming to burn us alive in it.”

So that’s why they were in the woods. Gabe hadn’t thought of that, and now that he has, it’s making him question his decision. He thinks he’s right, but if he isn’t? He can smell the smoke already. 

“I don’t - I mean -”

Balthazar steps forward.

“They’ll get to this house over my dead body. I give you my word.”

She snorts. “What’s that worth?”

“Absolutely nothing. And I’d say I’ll prove myself to you, but well, we don’t really want me to have to, do we?”

To Gabe’s shock, Anna laughs, and goes into the house, brushing past Cas on the way to soothe Alfie.

“Not that I’m not glad, but you’re buying that from him?”

Over her shoulder, she tosses back, “I haven’t met the man yet who wouldn’t go back on his word. At least your friend’s honest about it.”

Gabe supposes that’s a slight against him, and he decides to let it pass. Balthazar, of course, takes no offense, smiling broadly as he says, “Clever girl.”

Cas is still standing around holding a shotgun, his adrenaline obviously flowing high. Gabe takes it from him and motions to a chair.

“Sit, Cas. Act natural.”

“What happened?”

“Shh. I’ll tell you, but quickly. Keep your voice low. We’re waiting on the sheriff, remember.”

Gabe doesn’t plan on sleeping tonight, just in case. He’ll send the others to bed soon - it’d look odd if they were up - but talking will help him pass a little time. Besides, he doubts Cas will be able to sleep until he knows the story.

It’s a short one, really. Gabe and Balt met the others in the woods outside of the town, then rode in together. It should have been easy pickings, but somehow, the sheriff had time to get together a few men. Everyone managed to get out of the bank, but the townfolk caught up to them as they were riding out of town. Jimmy took a shot through the shoulder, but Balt, who saw it, said it looked clean, something he’ll easily survive. He fell off his horse, though, and they had to leave him behind. He’s definitely under arrest.

The others, Gabe doesn’t know about. If they followed his plan, they should be fine. After every job, they scatter in twos and threes, so no one knows which way to ride after them. When they’ve gone for a while, they lie low, and when it gets dark, they meet back at the agreed place in the woods to split their takings. If something happens, though, they’re not supposed to hang around to meet up. It’s every man for himself, get back home however you can, whatever you have on you is what you keep, and if you get caught, keep your damn mouth shut. It’s never happened before, and after tonight, Gabe is certain it’ll never happen again. He just doesn’t know if he can rely on the others, and it’s too great a risk to take. He’s done.

“You can rely on me.”

“Come on, Cas. You’re seventeen.”

“That’s old enough. Weren’t you?” He was, but he doesn’t think his eyes were ever as wide and earnest as his little brother’s are now.

“Those were different circumstances. I didn’t have a choice. And there’s Anna and Alfie to think about. You don’t want a mob showing up here, do you?”

“No, but-”

“So,” Balt breaks in brightly, “where are we going, then?” 

Gabe looks at him in surprise. “You too?”

“Why not? This game is getting tiring.”

“Well - how do you feel about herding cattle?”

**************************************

All things considered, Bobby came out of the war pretty well. He didn’t lose his shop, for one thing, and despite a nasty bullet wound, he can still walk. He’s got a bad limp, though, so while he can lift things just fine, he can’t carry them at all.

This is why he’s shaking Dean’s shoulder in the middle of the night.

“Get up, I need you,” he whispers.

Dean’s up immediately, silent and alert. His hand comes out from under his pillow with a gun, but Bobby’s unimpressed.

“Put that away, no one’s comin’ - for you, anyway. I gotta hide another one of you idjits.”

“What? Who?”

“Get down there and see for yourself.”

The pale kid sprawled across the floor next to Bobby’s forge looks familiar. He’d ask him if they knew each other, but he’s unconscious.

“Jesus, Bobby, what’d you do to him?”

“Nothin’! Well, practically nothin’. Bullet took off part of his thumb this morning. All I did was cauterize it.”

Dean winces in sympathy, but nods. It had to be done. He knew a man who got a nasty cut on his thumb. They never sealed his wound at the time, just cleaned it and wrapped a rag around it. But hands get filthy, and you use them every day, and in the two years Dean knew him, that wound never healed. He didn’t make it. It’s hard to cock a pistol with a thumb oozing pus.

“Carry him upstairs for me.”

“Where are you puttin’ him?”

“In your bed, idjit.”

“Hey!”

“You know of another bed I got? I ain’t runnin’ a damn boardin’ house. You ain’t hurt, and you’ve slept worse places than the floor.”

“Alright, alright. Take his boots off first.”

As Dean shifts him, his pockets jingle, and some coins fall onto the floor.

“Rich kid, huh?”

“Naw. Bank robber.” Dean’s eyes go wide, and Bobby shrugs defensively. “So long as all they rob is Federal banks, I don’t see the problem. The bastards might be screwin’ us, but that don’t mean we have to roll over and make it easy for ‘em.”

After Dean’s hauled the kid upstairs, sent a wakened Sammy back to sleep, and rolled himself in a blanket on the floor between them, he thinks, well, it’s been nice while it lasted. His break is over, though, and it’s time to come up with a plan. Bobby won’t ever kick them out, but he’s right, this isn’t a boarding house. They need to move on. 

They can’t just wander on out to their old house, though, not unless they’d like to eat weeds. They need a change of scene, and enough money for a fresh start. John Winchester didn’t have many friends, so Dean’s list of options is short. Bobby’s hospitality is just about used up, Pastor Jim was killed back before people were even calling the raids and counter-raids by the fancier name of war. Bill Harvelle, though, they could try him. Maybe he could use some help at his bar. Sam’ll be strong enough for that soon. As for Dean, well - he’s got an idea or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thumb thing actually happened to my many-greats grandfather. He was a Union soldier, though.


	6. Chapter 6

When it became clear that the tide was turning against them, Gabe’s commanding officers (or well, they called themselves officers), sent him on a desperate and useless mission. They told him to go west, out to the frontier, and coax as many men as he could to come back and fight for the beleaguered Missouri guerrillas. While the rest of the group went on fighting, Gabe rode away. He didn’t have much success as a firebrand, and frankly, he didn’t try. He fought for important reasons, he was sure, but he couldn’t quite seem to articulate them. Besides, crossing the prairies with the sun at his back, the battle didn’t seem so pressing. Far from civilization, there were still places where all you had to worry about was the occasional Indian raid. It seemed unscrupulous to try to draw the lucky men living there back into hell. 

Gabe just kept going. He made it all the way out to California in the end. The ocean was nothing like he’d imagined it. The waves were faster, more lively, moving just like a field of tall grass, and the color, though definitely blue, was much darker and more complex than the sky. Gabe likes to think of that memory.

Fool that he is, though, Gabe turned around at the ocean. He went right back to Missouri, and look what good that did him. He should have stayed gone. Well, he’s learned his lesson.

He’s been herding cattle for nearly a year now. He thought he’d like it, and he does. There’s a kind of rhythm to it not unlike his raids and robberies - intense excitement followed by a period of rest - and the money he earns is enough for him to indulge when he comes in off the trail. He’s got his favorite whores, of course, but he also always buys himself a little extra sugar ration. Everything’s better sweeter.

Anna’s furious, of course. She won’t answer any of his letters. She writes Balthazar, and he tells Gabe the news from home, a perverse kind of punishment that Gabe doesn’t really think he deserves. He was a danger to them at home. He left for them. Isn’t this what she wanted? He suspects that Anna’s not really angry because he’s gone, but rather because she knows he’s grateful to be away. It’s terrible, but he is. Life is better out here.

**********************************

Bill Harvelle’s dead. It’s a shame, but it ain’t exactly a surprise. He caught what a lot of people have, a bullet. 

Dean would never have wished it to happen this way, but what that means is that he and Sam have a solid place to stay. Harvelle’s widow Ellen and his daughter Jo are as tough a pair of women as he’s ever run across, but a man or two around the place is always handy. The Winchesters heft down crates of liquor from the storeroom, chop wood for winter, and hang around the bar in the evening, nursing drinks and settling fights before the guns come out.

It’s been a few years since they were officially at war, and things have settled down a bit. Dean and Sam aren’t in hiding anymore, and no one appears to want to kill them for their part in the fighting. That’s nice, but Dean hasn’t relaxed. He’s got all these new reasons to be jumpy, instead.

It was supposed to be a temporary thing. Dean was going to do a couple jobs, just enough to get him started on fixing up their farm and let Sam concentrate on the law, and then he’d quit. He wouldn’t tell anyone, not even Sam.

Damn, that boy’s smart, though. The minute Stumpy (hell, the thumbless boy thought it was funny, Sam can fuck off with his “poor taste”) told his story, Sam started eyeing Dean like he knew what he was thinking. He cornered him the minute they were alone.

“I want in, Dean.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t pull that shit with me. You’re going to rob a bank.”

“...And you’re alright with that?”

“You heard the kid, Federal banks only. It’s not much different from a raid, really.”

“War’s over, Sam.”

“Maybe for you it is, Dean. I didn’t take any oath.”

“Dammit Sam, what else was I supposed to do-”

“I don’t want to fight about it. I’m just asking you, how’d you feel last week when that carpetbagger had the gall to come into Harvelle’s? Strutting around like he was some conquering hero, when you know that pansy must’ve paid some poor fresh-off-the-boat Irishman to fight for him. He’d have shit his pants if he’d faced us, and we’re the ones supposed to give way? Did that feel right to you?”

“Of course not.”

“You think it’s right I can’t vote, can’t have any say at all in how things are run?”

“No.”

“You want the radicals around here, the same goddamned motherfuckers that killed our father, to get fat and happy off our land?”

“Fuck no, Sam-”

“Well I don’t know about you, but that’s what I was fighting against. I don’t see why I should stop now. This is just a change of tactics. They’re not using guns anymore, they’re using their cash. I can take that away from them.”

Dean should have argued harder. It might not have worked - Sam is stubborn when you push him - but he should have been a responsible brother, and tried. Instead, he was selfish. This was the best way out of their predicament. He’d already committed himself to it in his mind. He could have gone alone to another gang and asked to join them, as he’d planned, but he wouldn’t know anyone, wouldn’t trust them to have his back. He wanted Sam there with him, and so he gave in. Whatever happens next, it’s on his head.

They do a job or two with Stumpy and his friends, learning the ropes, but the Winchesters are better trained than most of them. They’re meant to be followed, not followers. Before long they’re operating on their own, picking up help as needed. Sam picks their targets carefully - a private bank run by a former US Army officer, or the place where everyone in a mostly pro-Federal town deposits their wages. Dean worries about the important stuff, like getting away.

It’s an accident. Sam must have gotten confused, or gotten some of his research wrong, or something. He would never have done it on purpose, not if he’d been given time to think. And if Dean’d been honest with him, he’d never have done it at all.

The robbery goes smoothly. No one fights back, and the Winchesters are handed everything they ask for. On the way out the door, Sam turns and shoots the teller in the head. Red everywhere. Then they run as fast as they can.

Far away in the woods, Dean gasps, “Jesus Christ, Sam, what was that?!”

“Didn’t you see? It was Cox. The one who shot Bloody Bill.”

“No, Sam, no it wasn’t.”

“It was!”

“I swear to you it wasn’t, Sam, I don’t know who the poor son of a bitch was, but it wasn’t Cox.”

Sam pales.

“You’re sure.”

“Oh, fuck, Sam, I’m sure.”

Sam looks down at the blood spattered on his clothes, and he starts laughing, kind of a wheezy thing that doesn’t sound funny at all.

“I killed a bank teller. My God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's reasons for fighting:
> 
> 1-"Carpetbagger"-northern Union supporter who has come south to profit off the Confederate loss. If you wanted to avoid war, you lived in the Union states, and you had the funds, what you did was pay a substitute to fill your place in the draft, which was totally legal. A good source was poor immigrants. There's class resentment on both sides, which is the origin of the saying "a rich man's war and a poor man's fight". The Winchesters used to be middle class-ish, now they have nothing, which just rubs salt in the wound.
> 
> 2-Sam can't vote, hold public office, or do a lot of other things because he hasn't taken the oath that Dean has. Over half of the state is in the same boat. He also, not that he's thinking about it at the moment, would have a hard time becoming a lawyer, etc.
> 
> 3-Because the state was so divided, it's not just that the Union wins, it's that the specific neighborhood enemies they have, their dad's murderers (more on that later), win.


	7. Chapter 7

Balt comes skidding around the corner of their lodgings, and Gabe just thinks, oh. Here it is again. There’s a quietness to the world before it explodes, a tension in the air that lets you know it’s coming. Gabe looks over Balt’s shoulder, inhales, notes that the sun is shining and he’s not even hungover from yesterday, then exhales, and waits for the blow.

“It’s Cas - he’s alright - ”

A little oxygen seeps back into his lungs.

“But he, uh - it’s not good. They were looking for you. Cas and Anna wouldn’t say anything, and so they...” Balthazar trails off, looking a little green, then clears his throat and continues. “They strangled him. Hanging, but without the drop to break the neck - well, you know. Four times. It didn’t kill him and he didn’t speak. So they cut him with their knives. I gather they left him for dead, but he survived. Anna says he’ll heal well, actually - where are you going?”

Gabe is already making a list of the things he’ll need in his head. Balt hurries to catch up with him.

“Home.”

********************************

Dean’s not really sure whether he’s lucky or unlucky, right now.

Lucky, because stories of what the Winchesters have done are spreading again - but this time without their names attached. No one’s come after them yet.

He’s also got the kind of luck you make yourself, because one thing Dean’s learned is that luck doesn’t hold. He and Sam still sleep at the Harvelle’s some nights, but other nights they slip in after dark at Bobby’s, and if the weather’s nice, they just sleep out in the woods. If their names ever become attached to their crimes, no one will know where to look for them. More importantly, Dean won’t draw an angry mob straight to his only friends.

But maybe he’s unlucky, because the story that went the furthest fastest was about the robbery that turned into an execution. That one scared some of the banks bad enough that they’ve hired Pinkerton detectives. They’re not locals, of course, so they don’t know who the usual suspects would be. But while the Winchesters’ local enemies have planting to do and wives and children of their own to worry about, these men have nothing to do but hunt bank robbers, and no one but themselves to protect. That’s a problem.

One already discovered them by accident, riding straight into their camp in the woods early one morning. Dean shot him before he could get his hand out of his jacket. They were near a stream, so they dragged him there and dumped him in. With any luck, the water’ll carry him away.

Still, it’s a sign that they’re in a bad business, and they need to get out. And that’s where Dean knows he’s unlucky, cause Sam’s taken to robbery like it’s his calling. Dean thought he knew his brother well enough to talk him into stopping, but all the things he could use to his advantage have twisted in his hands like a bad knife. 

Dean doesn’t pretend to give a damn for anything but his blood, but Sam has actual morals. It seems like that should be a point in Dean’s favor. Sam would never willingly do wrong. But that’s the catch - Sam would never have started this if he hadn’t convinced himself that it was right. Sam’s still fighting a war Dean stopped caring about sometime in 1863. Some of it’s some kind of high-flying idealism, which won’t do Sam any good but probably won’t hurt him either. Sam can argue philosophy forever if he wants - he’d be safe doing that. The problem is the other reason Sam can’t stop fighting, that gut-level need of Sam’s to be right, for justice as he sees it to be done. He has to punish the people who’ve done wrong, especially the ones who’ve done him wrong. That itch has been with Sam since their dad died, and Dean has tried and failed to get it out of his system.

Dean also thought Jessica would calm Sam down. Eventually she might. Sam’s been wanting to marry her since, oh, maybe five minutes after Jo introduced her. She and Sam had a lot of long, shy, quiet talks in the corner while Jo teased Dean and Dean adamantly pretended that this wasn’t courting, two by two. Jo is a scold who burns toast, and Dean is a man whose one skill is armed robbery, and after a while even Jo saw how stupid it would be to tie them together. Sam, though, finally did ask Jess to marry him, and she said yes. They’re eager to settle down - but that means Sam needs a way to support her, and a place to bring her. It means he needs cash.

Sam thinks he’s right, and Sam has a goal he’s trying to reach, and when you combine those two factors you’ve never seen a more stubborn son of a bitch than Sam. He won’t quit til he’s good and ready. So Dean needs all the luck he can make - for both of them. It’s not like he’ll let Sam do it alone.

But then again there are times like now, when Dean’s balanced on the roof of his childhood home, nailing on fresh shingles, and Sam’s down below, chopping firewood in the optimistic hope that he’ll have saved (stolen) enough to be married by winter. It’s near enough to fall that the sun feels comfortable, not suffocating. He throws old twigs down into his brother’s hair and teases him about the length, while Sam comes up with what he probably thinks are clever retorts. He’s in a good mood, though, and Dean just knows he’s imagining bringing Jess here as his wife, taking over their parents‘ old bedroom and settling in. Dean’ll stay in his old room, the bachelor brother, probably forever. He’s happy with that too, now he’s tasted Jess‘ desserts. They’ll figure out farming, keep things fixed up, maybe one day he’ll undermine Sam’s parenting. He’s got all this time now, time he didn’t figure he’d ever get, to watch Sam smile like this. So maybe he is lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-Cas' torture: again, really happened, and to more than one person. It's basically just an unfinished lynching.
> 
> 2-The Pinkerton National Detective Agency was a private company hired by businesses to protect against organized crime, break labor strikes, spy against competitors or unions, and in this case, hunt down robbers. They were well-armed and well-paid. From 1871 to 1893, the US hired them as private contractors to investigate federal crimes, making them the predecessors of the modern FBI.
> 
> 3-I know up until now we've had these two weird parallel stories - bear with me, they will connect next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

Balt follows Gabe into their lodgings and packs a bag alongside him. It’s Balt who grabs an acquaintance by the sleeve and ask him to tell their boss they quit, “brother taken sick, you know how it is...” Balt leaves town with him, and doesn’t lose an extraneous word on the ride.

Gabe’s only partly glad of it. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, but he knows, as he has since he was seventeen, that he needs someone to watch his back. Balt is an outsider, though, in so many ways. He doesn’t know the land like Gabe does, and he doesn’t know how violent its people can be, or just how long they can let a bitter grudge fester. Balt might be following him because he’s fond of Cas, or he might just be along for the adventure as usual, but there’s nothing holding him once he realizes the depth of the trouble the Miltons are in. Gabe doesn’t want to wade into a situation only to be abandoned there alone.

They make camp for the night among the trees, and over the fire, he says, “Balt, if you come back with me - I don’t know what’ll happen.”

He says carelessly, “Well, we’ll find out then, won’t we?”

“You could die, you know.”

“I’ve never done that before, could be interesting.”

“Goddammit, be serious. How far are you willing to go with this?”

Balt doesn’t wrinkle his brow, or raise his voice, or lean forward, or any of the other normal signs that Gabe would associate with sincerity. But the temperature lowers slightly in his smooth voice as he says, “I assure you, I am completely serious. And I will stay as long as Anna suffers me to.”

At that Gabe snorts. “She might let you in before she lets me.”

The smirk returns to Balt’s voice, and he nods. “Very possibly.”

So Gabe has an ally, and Balt, for whatever unfathomable reason, will now share his status as a wanted man. For the first time it occurs to Gabe to ask why the mob came to his house in the first place. He knows people had connected him, in their minds at least, to the robberies, but it’s been two years. What could they want with him now?

“Ah, but the robberies didn’t stop. When you left home, apparently some people saw it as an admission of guilt. They assumed you were at large in the area, hiding so you couldn’t be tracked down at home. For a while they seemed to tolerate it, but someone shot a bank teller... I suppose the good townsfolk are just fed up. So when they got proof-”

“What proof? I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re telling me? But, well, you remember the stream at the bottom of the back woods.” 

“Of course.”

“They found a Pinkerton agent in it. He’d been hunting the robbers, and there he was, dead on your land, so...”

“Goddamn. There’s murder on my head, isn’t there.”

“At least one.”

“Fucking... There’s no way that’s a coincidence. Someone framed me.”

“It does seem so.”

“I’m going to kill someone.”

Gabe can’t touch the men who hurt his brother. He’s known that since the first haze of rage and panic fell away. The entire community is against him, and anything he did to them, they’d do back harder. This, however, is a different story. Some bastard laid a body like a fucking trail of bread crumbs right up to his door and brought down a mob not on Gabe, who might generally deserve it, if not in this specific instance, but on Cas, whose greatest crime to date might be pinching Alfie. That man, Gabe can get to, and he will.

When they ride up, a boy is silhouetted in the moonlight on the porch, and for a minute Gabe thinks, my God, why is Cas out of bed? Then it shifts and hesitantly calls out, “Gabe?” and he realizes that once again he’s forgotten that time passes here too. This is Alfie, gone from round-cheeked child to rangy boy while he was away. 

“Yeah, it’s me. And Balt, you remember him?”

“Yeah. Hi.”

Anna appears squinting in the doorway, and Balt speaks first, calling out a soft, “Hello, Miss Milton.”

It’s surprisingly gentle for him, no mockery in his tone, no absurd nicknames, and it seems to placate her. She steps down to take the reins of his horse, and says, “I thought you would come,” leading the way to the stable with only a brief glance at Gabe. 

Eventually, that will be another worry of his, but for now Gabe hands Alfie his own reins and goes into the house. He hangs his hat on the peg on the wall, pauses, and inhales. The last cicada of the season is singing somewhere outside, but it’s cool now at night. The gas lamp casts a dim, yellowish light. Then he exhales, and goes into the bedroom he used to share with his brother.

Cas is awake, propped up against the pillows in his bed. There’s a ring around his neck, red scrapes and brown scabs where the rope must have rubbed him raw. At least one looks wet, as if it’s still oozing liquid. Slightly lower, a bandage covers the dip where his neck meets his shoulder. Another is wrapped around his forearm, and through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, Gabe can see the outlines of several more across his chest. He forces out a dry, unpleasant imitation of a laugh to cover the gasp he doesn’t want Cas to hear.

“Awake already?”

Cas nods, and waves him into the chair by his bedside. He’s scratching something out with chalk on a schoolboy’s slate, and for a minute Gabe’s thoughts latch onto it, wondering where it came from. Does Alfie go to school? When did Cas stop? Cas holds up the slate. His thin, spidery writing says, I’ll be fine soon.

“You can’t talk, how is that fine?”

“I can,” he croaks. Then he swipes his sleeve over the slate to erase it, and writes, It hurts, but it’s getting better.

“That’s good.”

Wait until I’m better to start.

“...what?”

You’re back for revenge?

“Yeah, Cas. Some motherfucker’s going to pay.”

I’m coming with you.

Gabe opens his mouth to argue, but Cas shakes his head, and scribbles hard enough to make the chalk squeak: No debate.

Strictly speaking, revenge is Cas’ to take if it’s anyone’s. But Gabe remembers Cas as a little boy, quiet and serious, unwilling to play rough games or get dirty, content to spend hours laying on the ground watching bees crawl over clover - and he doubts his brother has the stomach for it. He looks down at Cas’ hands on the blanket, and sees with surprise how hard and calloused they look. So he glances up into his eyes, bright and cold like mirrors, and realizes with a shock that his brother is a man. Furthermore, a man who’s been hung four times for Gabe’s sake, and is now in a hurry to get out of bed and fight. Maybe he shouldn’t underestimate Cas.

“Alright. We’ll do it together.”

He nods, satisfied.

“Cas, I’m sorry about all this.”

It’s not your fault.

“They were looking for me. You could have told them where I was. I was too far away for them to reach, anyway.”

They wouldn’t have believed me. It would only have made them angrier.

“So what did you say?”

Nothing. I didn’t want it to sound like begging.

“Jesus, if you had it’d be understandable, Cas.”

I would rather die.

All at once Gabe sees the family resemblance, Michael’s fury and Luke’s defiance combined in their kid brother, and he shudders at the memory and a sudden rush of pride. He doesn’t have to worry about Balt, after all. Cas will have his back.

That week, Balt rides into town alone. He listens to the news about the Miltons with shock, as if he’s not sleeping on the straw in their barn, and makes sure to say loudly, “But I just left Gabe! He’s herding cattle out west!” He visits old acquaintances, and when they’re alone, asks a few carefully placed questions. No one knows for sure who shot the Pinkerton, but those who can guess best give him the name Winchester.

“Winchester? Dean Winchester?”

“Oh, so you know him,” Balt says.

“Yes. Not well, but - he was a bushwhacker in the war, like me. We raided together for a while. He seemed decent enough at first, but then Bloody Bill got ahold of him, and, well... the last time I saw Winchester, you’d have confused him for his leader. He was covered in blood, and none of it was his.”

Balt grimaces. “Lovely. So he’d be quite capable of framing you.”

“I suppose, but why? He was never exactly subtle. If he wanted to hurt me or my family, he’d have come and done it himself. And if it was just about throwing suspicion off himself, why, he’s got enemies enough of his own to frame. We were never friends, but we did ride together, and whatever else he was, he always seemed loyal... It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Shall I ask around some more?”

“No, it has to be him. He did it.”

“How do you know?”

“Winchester lives in the next county, I don’t know exactly where. This is far out of his usual way. If he’s been showing his face around here, it’s because he’s moving around, hiding out like they thought I was. He doesn’t want to lead a Pinkerton home.”

“Well, then! Shall we?”

Gabe glances at the shiny patches of new skin on his brother’s healing throat, and pauses.

“I think... we should demand an explanation first. I don’t know Sam, but Dean’s a dangerous man. Maybe there’s a way to avoid killing.”

Cas shakes his head before he remembers he can speak, and then scratches out, “I’m not afraid of him.” Gabe’s heart sinks. Then Cas sighs and continues, sounding twice his age, “But I don’t take joy in unnecessary death. We can talk to them first.”

****************************************

Somebody gives someone else a note, who hands it to Bobby, who rides out to meet them with an expression halfway between terror and fury. Gabriel Milton is calling them out. He wants to “talk”. Sure.

“But it was an accident, Dean. I didn’t know it was his land, neither did you.”

“He’s not gonna believe that! I know Gabe Milton, Sam, he’s a tough son of a bitch. This isn’t good.”

“We almost got an innocent person killed. I know it’s a shitty explanation, but it’s the truth, and the Miltons deserve to hear it.”

It’s not that Dean doesn’t think Gabe’s got a right to be angry. If someone had gotten Sam hurt like that, he’d have lost his damn mind. That’s why he doesn’t want to get anywhere near them. He’s sorry for Gabe’s little brother, he is, but he’s got one of his own to worry about.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t die, so-”

“I’m going, Dean. You can come if you want.”

And Sam knows he will, goddamnit, because he can’t stop him, and he sure as hell can’t let him go alone.


	9. Chapter 9

Gabe told the Winchesters to meet them at the stream on the edge of their property. It seemed fitting, like poetic justice. That is, if it’s the Miltons that gain the upper hand. He sent Anna and Alfie to a sympathetic neighbor, one who won’t ask questions. He doesn’t know if, even if the Winchesters were able to kill all three of them, they’d come up the hill after a woman and a child. It’s easy to say a man just wouldn’t sink that low, but Gabe knows that, given the right circumstances, just about anyone can and will. He’s seen it happen. So even though Gabe hopes for a quick resolution, he’s prepared for a massacre.

As the sun begins to set, Gabe takes a lantern, his brother, and his friend and rides down to the edge of their property. The Winchesters aren’t supposed to be at the meeting spot for hours, but Gabe knows a house is an easy target, lit up enough to make its inhabitants night-blind. He wants to see them coming. 

They tie their horses nearby and settle down to wait, guns across their knees. Balt passes the time telling filthy anecdotes. Cas watches the leaves in the treetops for as long as he can, impassive as a veteran. When the dark settles around them, Balt slowly falls silent. It won’t be long now.

It’s as if God is conspiring with them. The moonlight falls into the gap in the tree line where the water runs, illuminating a strip like a moat between them and their adversaries. After a while, they hear hoofbeats, and get to their feet.

The Winchesters pull up at a distance. Their forms are just shadows between the trees as they tie up their own horses. Their heads scan back and forth, obviously not picking out the Miltons yet, and for a minute Gabe thinks, now would be the best time to shoot.

Instead he calls, “Winchester!”

They come down to the bank, and Gabe is startled to realize the taller silhouette he’s been tracking is unfamiliar. Gabe remembers Dean as a big man, but apparently his brother is even larger.

“Alright, Milton, we’re here. What now?” There’s mistrust in Dean’s voice, but not a shred of remorse, and Gabe can already feel irritation swelling in him.

“You framed me.”

“No we didn’t.”

“You killed that Pinkerton?”

“We did, yeah, but it wasn’t like that. Look, I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

“You expect me to believe that? Oops, you’re sorry? You nearly killed my brother, you bastard - ”

The forms across the stream are subtly tensing, the shoulders drawing up and in, and he can feel his fingers tightening on his gun, and he knows this is going to go bad. He can feel the shift in the air, and as much as he fears it, he’s hungry for it, too, ready, ready -

Then the taller one he assumes is Sam lays down his gun, throws up his hands, and sloshes two steps forward into the stream itself, until he’s fully illuminated in the moonlight. His face is almost comical in its emotions, like every woodcut of a sinner’s repentance he’s ever seen. For a minute he thinks hysterically that they could baptize Sam now, in the water, with his hands up and the moonbeams falling down on him like grace. Maybe it is a moment of grace, because the tension’s broken, and his finger moves away from his trigger.

“I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but we’re truly sorry. We don’t live around here, we didn’t know this was your land. He surprised us in camp and this was the closest place... We thought the stream might carry him away. I guess it didn’t. If we’d known, we’d never have done it. You fought with Quantrill... some of us still have a loyalty to that.”

He seems to honestly believe everything he’s saying, and Gabe wishes he could see Dean’s face as well.

“That doesn’t change what happened to Cas.”

“I know, and we’ll make up for it, I swear.”

Cas speaks up. “How?”

“Well,” Gabe sees him swallow quickly, nervous, “the law would suggest payment. You know. For damages.”

“There has been no permanent damage.”

Gabe cuts off his overly literal brother. “How much?”

“We, uh, we don’t have anything now. We’d need to do another job. We could give you all of it, though.”

“So, how much?”

“Well, uh, we’ve been taking a thousand or two each time?”

“That’s all?”

“There’s only the two of us. We stick to really small towns.”

Balt snorts. “How hopelessly mediocre.”

Dean’s anger is clear in the sarcastic bite of his words. “Well, if we had y’all along I’m sure we could make a killing, but we don’t. You’ll have to take what we can get.”

Both Balt and Cas shoot him a quick look at that, and he can only look back at them in confusion. What?

“If we did a job with them, there’d be a lot more for us to keep,” Balt explains.

No, Gabe thinks, the Winchesters can’t be trusted, this is a terrible idea - but then Cas says quietly, “I think this deserves more than a few thousand.” He can’t argue with that.

“Alright. One job.”

Cas tucks his gun under his left arm, and before Gabe can stop him, he steps forward into the stream to meet Sam. He offers him his hand, and they shake on it.

**********************************

When they’re back on their own land Dean snatches a handful of Sam’s jacket and shoves him back against a tree. 

“What the hell were you thinking?! You couldn’t have made yourself a better target if you painted a goddamn bull’s-eye on yourself!”

“But they didn’t shoot me, and it worked out fine. Get off me, Dean.” Sam tugs his hands away and brushes past him, and not for the first time Dean wishes the kid was still a skinny twelve-year old he could rattle some sense into with a shake.

“I still don’t like it. The sooner we get this done the better.”

Sam snorts. “What, you think that Milton boy looks like the murdering type?”

Actually, to Dean he’d looked half-murdered. He was young, younger than Sammy, younger than Dean could ever remember being, and so pale he could have been a ghost, especially with that dark line, visible even in the dim light, around his neck. He waded out to Sam with his hand out and the moon glinting off of round pale eyes and looked so innocent and harmless that Dean just mistrusted him on principle.

But hey. No one was shot tonight. He’s worked with Gabe before, and assuming this isn’t some crazy plan to frame or kill them - which he wouldn’t past the sneaky bastard - all they have to do is one robbery together. They can do this.


	10. Chapter 10

They agreed to meet at Harvelle’s. Everyone sympathetic to the cause is at least vaguely aware of the place, an old meeting point during the war. Gabe knows Bill Harvelle was a friend of John Winchester’s, but he’s not sure how far the friendship has been maintained among their surviving family members. Besides, there’s a good chance men he’s fought with will be drinking there, maybe even men he’s robbed with, too. The place is as close to neutral ground as they’re likely to find.

Not, of course, that Gabe wants to be seen by any of his old associates. He waits until it’s thoroughly dark before he leaves, taking the back ways through the trees and along the edges of fields that the Winchesters must have taken only the night before. Balt and Cas follow, silent in case any other Pinkertons have been assigned to track them. They tie their horses up at the edge of the woods, and walk the short way to the bar, keeping to the shadows as much as possible.

As they approach, Balt splits off from them, stepping around to the front door, where he’ll go in like anyone else, and spend his night drinking and chatting, listening if anything useful comes up, and distracting or if need be shooting anyone making a move toward the back. Gabe leaves Cas at the back door to the bar’s storeroom, where he’ll stand watch. Gabe will explain the plan for the robbery to them later, as he explained the plan for this evening at home. He doesn’t really expect the Winchesters to do anything to them, or he wouldn’t have come, but he hasn’t survived this long by being a trusting man.

Inside, Dean narrows his eyes. 

“Where’re your friends?”

“Balt’s in the bar, keeping a lookout. Cas is at the back door.”

Dean stands. “I’ll just go sit with Cas.”

Gabe expected that; no guerrilla worth his salt would let himself be boxed in anywhere, and he remembers Dean as a good fighter. He’d expected him to send Sam out to stand guard, though, and for a moment Gabe’s thrown. 

The Winchesters have managed to avoid suspicion thus far - they know what they’re doing, and if Dean leaves Sam to plan this job, he’s probably done it before, and successfully. That means, though, that Gabe’s misjudged the relationship between these brothers. He’d assumed that Dean made most, if not all decisions, as he used to do. He knows Dean, only slightly but enough to read his moods, enough to trade off their mutual experiences. Sam is an unknown, and that makes him nervous.

On the other hand, Sam is the one who waded out into a stream to shake his brother’s hand. This is a probably a positive development.

Gabe takes his father’s old ordnance survey map out of his pocket and sits down at the table.

“So, where were you thinking of doing this, kiddo?”

*******************************

The kid just keeps watching him. It’s like he doesn’t have to blink. This close, Dean can see that red ring around his neck isn’t even. It’s more a line of different patches, some flaking scabs, some shiny pink new skin, and some vague smears that look like dirt but might be fading bruises. It’s far from being the worst thing Dean’s ever seen, but still, it bothers him. And the kid won’t stop staring.

“So. Cas. How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Really? You don’t look it.”

Cas looks down at his body, confused and maybe a little annoyed, like it’s let him down. And now that Dean looks at him, he doesn’t really look that young after all. He looked tiny next to Sam, but then everyone does. He’s not bulky, but he’s strong, Dean can tell from the way the veins stand out on his forearms. And the hands on his gun look comfortable - he knows how to shoot. It’s just his eyes, maybe, even bigger when they’re tracking everything you do. The light thrown from the windows of the bar is still fairly dim, but this time he's close enough to see they’re blue.

“What do you do for a living, Cas?”

Cas shrugs. “My family grows enough to eat.”

“Farming, huh? Yeah... I might get into that one day. When I, you know, retire. I don’t know a damn thing about it, though.”

“Neither did I, in the beginning. The first year is very hard, but the second is much easier. And of course you’d be stronger than I was at first,” Cas says with the confidence of experience, and Dean wonders how many successful harvests he’s had.

He remembers when Chuck Milton was murdered. It made the papers, of course, and everyone talked about it for weeks, his dad most of all. Dean remembers him stabbing a finger at the article, then pushing it away from him with disgust to let Dean and Sam have a look at it.

“You remember that, boys. That’s what abolitionists do to a good man.”

At the time, Dean believed him. It felt like a fire burning in his gut, how angry it made him. He was in such a hurry to get to war that he couldn’t wait to enlist in the militia. He went straight into raiding. Dad was proud.

Sometimes he has trouble keeping track of time. It’s been eight years by the calendar, but in memory? There are children alive now who’ll know it only in stories, who’ll think him a fool for fighting a losing war. And then there are old men who remember it all like yesterday, still keeping the faith, stupid in their innocence. 

It’s been an entire lifetime since he left home, the lifetime of the boy he was. That Dean is dead and gone. He’s someone different now. He has been since he first went to fight under a black flag - “no quarter given, none received” - and learned that this is the rule under any flag. What happened to Chuck Milton is just what the strong do to the weak. He was weak. Dean is strong.

Cas is weak. And whether he meant to or not, this is another thing Dean did.

“Listen, I’m sorry about that.”

Cas nods, absentmindedly feeling a scar on his adam’s apple. 

“I heard about your father. I’m sorry about that.”

It wasn’t Dad’s war. He fought in the last one, taking Texas from Mexico. It was Dean’s turn, but Dad just couldn’t leave him to it. He let guerrillas stay on his land, he gave them food and supplies, he said everything he thought and he said it loudly, and in the end, he got lynched for it. Shortly after that came the eviction order. Sam just locked the house and never came back.

Now Dean is the one staring. For a crazy minute he thinks of asking Cas what it feels like to be hanged, to tell him how his father felt - and then he wrenches his eyes away from that pale damaged throat, and his mind away from dangerous ground.

“Yeah, well. I’m sorry, you’re sorry, the world’s a sorry place. It happens.”

Cas nods again, apparently comfortable with silence. Dean thinks longingly of the beer inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-Flying a black flag didn't become associated with anarchism until the 1880's. At this point in time it could have had a lot of meanings - the one I gave is as an anti-white flag, the opposite of peace or surrender - and comes from a source describing these guerrillas as fighting under it sometimes.
> 
> 2-John Winchester's war is the Mexican-American War, 1846-1847.


	11. Chapter 11

Gallatin is the perfect target. It’s a small town, with dimensions like the Winchesters are used to, but it’s got enough wealth to make its bank worth the robbery. It’s isolated, far from the threat of local sheriffs, Pinktertons, or even the occupation soldiers that Kansas City is bristling with these days. They’ll be gone before anyone has the chance to raise an alarm. And most importantly, they won’t know where to look. It’s a two days’ ride from Gallatin to the Winchesters’ farm, and even further to the Miltons’. There won’t be any reprisals for this one.

They meet on the Winchesters’ land, a sign of goodwill on both sides. Gabe now knows exactly where to find them, and in return, he’s come directly onto - and more importantly, back out of - their territory without incident. They spend the day riding at a leisurely pace along the most deserted roads they know, sparing their horses and doing their best to look harmless. 

Cas, as usual, appears content to spend ten hours together in silence. Dean is subdued this morning as well. Sam fills the quiet with questions, whether from social obligation or genuine curiosity Gabe can’t be sure.

“So, uh, Balt? How’d you end up here?”

Gabe’s heard many variations of this story, one he has to tell whenever someone new hears his accent. His actions generally shift from patriotism to rebellion depending on his distance from the Mason-Dixon line. To Gabe’s surprise, this time Balt opts for something that might come near honesty.

“My father ran a shipping company in New Orleans. He had dealings with Gabe’s father, as a matter of fact.”

Dean whistles. “I didn’t know your father’s business stretched that far, Gabe.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Gabe answers. What he meant to be a flippant joke comes out sharp, and he can see Dean eyeing him thoughtfully.

Balthazar ignores them, continuing, “He hurried home as soon as war was declared. I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Shipping’s boring. War seemed like it had promise. Of course, New Orleans was captured so early that it hardly made it worth my while... So I began to make my way up and down the Mississippi.”

“Like a... tourist?” Sam’s tone is almost horrified.

“Well, I did take messages with me, for those that asked. And of course I’d tell them what I saw on the way. It was easier for me to travel than most. After all, Britain was officially neutral.”

“So you were a spy.”

“A courier, let’s say. It was interesting. I was in St. Louis at war’s end, and, well, you know the saying. ‘Go west, young man!’ Of course, I got only as far as Kansas City before I decided to drop in on my father’s old business associate and met Gabe here instead. He’s provided plenty of excitement.”

“What does your family think you’re doing?”

“Oh, I haven’t written in, let’s see, must be eight years now. I suppose they think I’m dead.”

“And you don’t miss them? Home?”

Balt laughs. “Did you know, there are whole books written to help housewives determine which of their acquaintances is ranked high enough to go in to dinner first? There are such things as calling cards, and carefully planned visits of no more than fifteen minutes, and an entire language of things a lady would like to communicate to you with her fan... Rules about how many times you can dance with one woman, rules about the cut of your clothing, rules about when and on what you dine. They were there in New Orleans, to an extent. London is rotten with them. But you boys have never heard of such things, have you? You eat when you’re hungry and you wear what you have. Your women don’t care for rank, so long as you can provide, and they’re actually clever enough to carry on a conversation with. Yes, it’s primitive, granted, you don’t have much, but one thing you don’t have is any damned rules.”

After that Balt’s silent, seemingly self-conscious after a tirade the likes of which Gabe has never heard from him before. He thinks that may have actually been sincere. The group is quiet for a minute. When it turns uncomfortable, Gabe makes a joke, to which Balt responds with one of his own. Conversation resumes.

The only difference between their evening camp and wartime life is that now, they don’t need to take turns standing watch. Old habits die hard, though, and Gabe’s body clings to consciousness for a long time.

In the morning there’s coffee and a short ride, at a walking pace to keep their horses fresh. It’s difficult to keep from urging them faster, even for a veteran like Gabriel. Beside him, he can hear Balt give the false little sigh of boredom he does when he’s tempering his nerves. Behind him, he hears Dean mutter, “Easy, Cas, ain’t no hurry.” He doesn’t reply. Nevertheless, their pace increases with their anticipation, and Gabe briefly reviews the plan.

Not everyone needs to be inside the bank. In fact, the fewer that are, the better. Buildings are traps, complete with one easy door for your enemies to pick you off from when you step out. As much of the group as can be spared should be outside, guarding entrances, being lookouts, or even, if you’ve got the men to spare, controlling major bridges and roads to a town. In an all-out conflict, there’s strength in numbers, but in the aftermath, no one should move in a crowd. It’s a pattern that has been familiar to him since before he really had to shave: converge, attack, disperse, regroup.

The Winchesters will take the most risk on themselves. They’re going into the bank, while the others linger nearby, playing lookout as unobtrusively as they can. Gabe taught Balt the basics years ago, and Cas claims to understand the plan, though Gabe doesn’t intend to let him out of his sight. He’s been pleasantly surprised by how quickly Sam picked up his tactics. Gabe and Dean learned from the same skirmishes, even from same of the same people, but he hadn’t expected Sam’s experience. He never met him during the war. 

From what Sam told him, he didn’t join until Quantrill had broken with Bloody Bill. It’s unsurprising, then, that he never saw the younger Winchester. Had they met in a raid, they would have fought together, but Gabe’s company wouldn’t have wanted to own the Winchesters as their own. Not with the taint of Bloody Bill on them. Then Gabe was sent to California, and the Winchesters, apparently, began to operate on their own. Gabe isn’t certain how much sustained action Sam saw, how well he knows what his brother can do, or how much he’s capable of himself. It’s an uncertainty that makes him nervous. As long as they’re on his side, though, he’ll tolerate the stress.

No one pays much attention to them when they ride into town. They’re strangers, but there’re a lot of them around these days. Dean nods to them and grins as he and Sam dismount and walk into the bank. 

The silence that follows is encouraging. Gabe spares a moment from scanning the surroundings to glance at his brother. Cas looks as if he’s enjoying the scenery. For a minute he’s tempted to jostle him and remind him how serious this is, but not only would that be a distraction, someone might overhear him. 

And then it’s not a problem, because the Winchesters are already hustling out of the bank, tossing them bags as they swing onto their horses. Gabe doesn’t spare any time exchanging words with them, just grabs what he’s given, spurs his horse, and rides like hell - north, away from home. Balt and Cas keep up; the Winchesters hopefully find their own way.

When Gabe was a schoolboy, they used to run footraces at recess. The moment behind the line seemed eternal, everyone’s bent knees trembling in an agony to run - then someone’d shout ‘Go!’, and all the force in ten skinny pairs of legs would explode at once. Gabe was too short to ever win a race, but he just loved to run. Fifteen years later, laid out flat along the neck of his horse, wind in his face and a bewildered local sheriff somewhere in the distance, he still loves to run.

They pull up when they’re far enough away. One hand tangled securely in his reins, horse dancing around irritably, Balt throws his head back and laughs in the exhilarated way Gabe hasn’t heard since they last left Missouri. Cas is smiling wide enough to show his gums, and Gabe fights to be the stern leader and utterly loses the battle. God, he’s missed this.

Over the next hour, they curve slowly around on the smaller trails through the trees, heading back towards home. Then they dismount, lead their horses into the woods, and spend the afternoon lying in the underbrush, sharing bread and cheese for lunch. Around nightfall, they get back on the road, traveling briskly now to meet the Winchesters where they slept last night. Gabe whistles to let them know who it is as they approach. There’s a late dinner of pork and beans over the fire, Dean’s at his lively best, and the take, when they count it, is more than they expected. It’s one of the best days Gabe’s had in a long time. He could get used to this.

********************************

The thing is, with someone guarding the door for him, Dean feels confident enough to take his time in the bank. He made sure they cleared them out thoroughly. The take’s more than he’s used to, more than Sam estimated they’d get. He doesn’t get to keep a cent, which a damn shame, but it’s nice to hold that much money, all the same. He lets a few coins fall from one hand to another and grins across the fire at the Miltons.

“Y’know, we make a good team.”

Cas smiles back, open and easy like the kid he is, and Balt nods in his calculating way, but Gabe doesn’t look up for a minute. Dean’s expecting a curse, if he gets a response at all.

Instead, Gabe cocks an eyebrow and says, “We do. Let’s do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-Gallatin is a real town, as are all of the locations I have or will use. In case anyone is interested, the Miltons are in what's now known as Lee's Summit. It wasn't a town back then. The Winchesters live well outside of any town, but the closest is Liberty. On horseback, the Winchesters live maybe three or four hours away from the Miltons.
> 
> 2-Mason-Dixon line: technically, this is just the dividing line between Pennsylvania and Maryland. As an imaginary boundary stretched out across the US it's the dividing line between the north and the south.
> 
> 3-"Go west, young man" was already a famous saying at the time. We're right in the middle of the US's big push to the west - most of these towns in Missouri are only about 30-40 years old.


	12. Chapter 12

Anna doesn’t like him to smoke in the house. If anyone were to ask, that’s the reason Gabe is sitting on the porch, making his tobacco last. It has nothing to do with the discussion he very much wants to hear, but desperately doesn’t want to be included in, taking place on the other side of this thin clapboard wall.

“Cas, you don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to.”

He can hear his brother’s footsteps creaking floorboards as he goes back and forth, gathering his things. They’ve learned from their mistakes; they won’t lead a mob home again.

“But the planting-”

“Won’t be necessary for months. There is enough wood for the winter, and I’m sure you have enough preserves. If you don’t, I’ll buy you supplies from town. I’m not abandoning you and Alfie.”

“You’re leaving your land.”

“It belongs to Gabe.”

“Is that the problem? He doesn’t want it, I know-”

“I don’t want it either. I’m going, Anna.”

“Castiel Milton-” 

Gabe cringes as he hears Anna stamp her foot. He’s an outlier in this family. Cas and Anna are - were - the core, and it sounds like it’s about to shatter.

“I promise you, I won’t let him come to any harm.”

Gabe shakes his head. Had Balt sat silently in the room, he might have escaped notice, but now he’s going to catch hell.

“As if you could protect him! I’d rather have Cas’ promise for you!”

“Your brother’s not meant to be behind a plow, Anna. You know that. He’ll never be happy doing it, not anymore than you are canning.”

“But I’m not running off, abandoning my responsibilities!”

“I’ll make in a month what we could earn in a year,” Cas protests.

“You stay out of this! No, I don’t like my life, but I don’t get to run away.”

Balt makes an amused sound, and answers, “Well, you could, but I suspect you’d slap me if I asked.”

“I should slap you anyway, you fickle bastard!”

“Fickle? I’ve been following your brother for years. Were he a woman I’d be married, or want to know why not.”

“And who asked you to do that? Do you want a medal for tearing around the country raising hell?”

“Where else should I have gone? Should I have stayed here - with an unmarried girl and her little brothers? What would have happened to your reputation then, my lovely Miss Milton?”

“Probably about the same thing that happens when you’ve got an outlaw for a brother,” she snaps.

Cas intervenes in a conflict that’s gotten oddly away from him. “We’re leaving. I’ll be back. Take care of yourselves.”

“Wait -” her tone is softening now, as she realizes he’s really leaving. Gabe knew she liked him better. “Be careful, Cas. Don’t get into trouble.”

“I’ll try.”

The door opens, and Gabe stands awkwardly, unsure whether to look concerned or careless. Anna is unimpressed.

“You’d better act like you have some sense, Gabriel.”

“I will.”

Balt snorts, and she spins on him. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch.

“If you get yourself killed, Balthazar, I will make you sorry you did it.”

He laughs, and says, “I have no doubt.”

Cas lingers long enough to give his sister a peck on the cheek, and then they leave in a hurry.

**************************************

The house is almost finished. It won’t be ready in time for the winter, but that’s alright. They’ll camp just a bit longer, then shift among their friends until spring. 

Dean’s actually looking forward to it. He’s spent too many winters outdoors not to relish the thought of a warm fireside with his friends.

To Sam, of course, the delayed work on the house is a disaster. Dean’s tried to assure him that Jessica will wait til spring (and possibly til kingdom come, the way she looks at him), but he’s in a foul mood. 

The whole gang is sleeping on Winchester land tonight, and he’s managed to badger them into helping him for an hour or two. Gabe is passing the time describing the delights of every whorehouse between here and Chicago, all of which Sam, in his foolish youth, is now promising to avoid.

“Although what the missus doesn’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”

Balt’s mockery is more like fascination, as if he’s a professor talking to a savage.

“Well, well, a domesticated outlaw! No, honestly though, you’ll bring her here? And then what?”

Dean sighs, and looks up from the crack he’s been sealing in the wall. 

“Cas, you wanna come take a look at our fields? Gotta start ‘em sometime, and I sure as hell don’t know how.”

He nods, and follows Dean down the hill and away from the house.

It’s quiet. It’s always quiet around Cas, even when he’s speaking. It made Dean itchy at first, but he’s gotten used to it. It even settles him a bit. He wishes it worked on Gabe and Balt.

“Your fields were burned?” he asks.

Dean kicks disgustedly at the tangled weeds. “Of course they were.”

“What did you grow, before?”

“Tobacco.”

“Ah. That won’t work.”

“Can’t eat it. I know.”

“Eventually, maybe you grow a little to sell... but to begin with, no. I’ve had success with Indian corn. It’s very versatile. Vegetables are... difficult. The soil here is apparently not good for them. I could give you part of my seed potatoes, if you’d like to try your luck.”

He wouldn’t, not really. He wouldn’t know where to start. It looks hopeless to him, and even Cas looks a little grim under his helpful businesslike tone.

“Doesn’t your back hurt?”

“Now? No.”

“When you’re doing this, I mean. I look at those weeds and I think, Christ. Bending over that in the heat? The Devil himself couldn’t come up with worse.”

“It isn’t pleasant.”

“Then why do you do it?”

And suddenly there’s a smile sneaking up on Cas’ face, not a wide open one but a sly little thing, taking over one corner of his mouth and then the other. He cuts his eyes over at Dean and says, “I don’t. Not anymore.”

He looks like a kid playing hooky, and Dean grins and teases, “Oh no? What do you do now?”

Cas leans in as if imparting a secret, all seriousness now except for those big eyes dancing with laughter. “I’m a bank robber.”

“My stars!” Dean squawks, clasping his hands to his chest. 

Cas has to fight hard to suppress his laugh. He narrows his eyes in a parody of menace. “Yes. Don’t tell anyone, or I’ll...”

“You’ll what?” Dean challenges playfully, sticking out his chest.

Cas steps close enough to crowd him. God, he doesn’t ever blink. Dean looks away first, and there’s satisfaction making Cas’ voice warm when he answers, “I’ll do whatever I feel like.”

This field is full of all kinds of grasses. Maybe Dean’s got some kind of late hayfever. He coughs to catch his breath, and steps back. Cas is quiet again, lapsed into his calm as if he never left it. The smile hasn’t entirely left his lips, though.

“Aw, to hell with farming. I’ll do it next year. And in the meantime I’ll ride with you, alright Cas?”

“Alright.”

Dean slings an arm over his shoulders, and they head back to the house.


	13. Chapter 13

“Futuo, futuis, futuit, futuimus, futuitis, futuunt.”

Sam’s eyes are on his books. Gabe glances at Balt, sitting innocently at the other end of Bobby’s table with a beer, and winks.

“Futuo...” Sam obediently begins, and Balt laughs.

“Balt! You ruined it!”

“What?”    
“That’s not the past tense.”

“It isn’t?”

“He’s teaching you to conjugate the Latin for ‘fuck’.”

Sam pulls a sour face.

“Alright, you don’t have to help me. I can teach myself.”

“It’s not futuo, it’s fui. ‘I have been,’” Cas drawls, half-asleep in a corner by the fire.

Balt, almost incredibly, is the product of a full gentleman’s education. Gabe was never studious, but he had the benefit of his father’s library, some long-suffering tutors, and a pair of snickering older brothers. Even then he doesn’t remember much of Latin but the obscenities. Cas was a child when their father’s house burned, taking the library, the books, and all necessity for Latin along with it. How did he learn that? Why bother?

Seeing Gabe’s stare, Cas shrugs. 

“We took a few books when we were evicted. One was a Latin dictionary. I read it often.”

Dean, who can read well enough to answer a letter, stretches from his place on the other side of the fire, knocking his boot against Castiel’s.

“Hey, Cas, I didn’t know you were such a scholar.”

Cas’ smile is small and strange. “Fui,” he answers.

Everyone tenses as the door opens, then relaxes when Bobby sticks his head inside the room.

“It’s dark. Ain’t no reason someone can’t go unhitch my horses.”

Dean stands immediately, and as Bobby takes his seat, he asks, “You boys hear about the new bank the Federals’re opening in Liberty?”

Sam raises his eyebrows, and Latin is forgotten for the evening.

**************************************************

Winter is dark and cold, and there’s nothing in particular any of them have to do. It’s surprisingly cozy, sitting around with the boys, but you can only do it for so long, and everyone’s in a hurry to get away tonight. Sam’s going courting, Gabe’s going drinking, and Cas is going home.

Dean’s all set to head out with Gabe. He assumes Balt is coming too, but he shakes his head.

“Sorry, boys. I’m going with Cas.”

Gabe scoffs. “Your funeral.”

Cas turns his unblinking gaze first on Gabe, then, as if giving up on him, on Dean.

“Would you like to meet my sister, Dean?”

“Huh, that’s a first. Usually I hear ‘stay away from my sister, you bastard’.”

Cas and Balt don’t seem particularly amused, but Gabe could care less.

“Anna can take care of herself. Besides, there’s more women for me without you around, Winchester.”

“Alright, what the hell. I’ll come.”

There are only a few types of women in the world. There’s the sweet, shy ones that Dean can send into a flutter with a wink. They’re pretty little fools who leave their hearts open for just anyone to take - and because of that, Dean takes care to leave them alone. He’s not that kind of bastard. 

There are the solitary ones, widows or orphans, who want something specific from him, something he can easily give. Sometimes there’s sex, but what they really want from his body is something else. There’s a lot of women in the county who buried their fathers, or husbands, or brothers themselves. He’s got money and a gun, and tall strong shoulders to stand behind. He doesn’t mind being that, for a while. He’s spent more than one afternoon chopping wood for someone else’s woodpile. By evening he’ll be gone, but these women don’t resent it. They’ve seen better men than him go.

And then there are the steely ones, the ones who chop their own wood and keep their kitchens neat, go to church every Sunday, bake bread every Saturday, and keep a gun behind the door that they won’t hesitate to use. They’ve got thin rough hands and sternly smoothed hair, saving up all their beauty to use when they smile at someone they really love. They know what they want, and they don’t want any part of Dean.

Anna falls into the third category. She smiles politely at the things he says, but her eyes flick between Cas and Balt often, and Dean knows she’s not really listening. It’s clear there are things she wants to say to them, but she’s determined to be a lady in front of company. He wonders if that’s why Cas invited him in the first place.

Alfie demands stories of their latest adventures, and gets a few, carefully edited under Anna’s hard stare. Then he’s sent to bed, and they pull their chairs close to the fire and lower their voices. Balt’s brought a book he thought Anna would like, and they page through it together, murmuring too low for Dean to really hear. Next to him, Cas’ head is bobbing forward in sleep. He softly kicks his shoe, and smiles when he starts awake. 

Cas stretches and says, “It’s late. We should go.”

“Saddle my horse for me, will you, Cas? I want to show Anna one more thing.”

Cas nods, and Dean follows him out. As he pulls the door shut, he sees Balt put his hand on Anna’s arm.

“Uh, Cas - you sure you don’t want to chaperone those two?”

The cold air has woken him back up, and his voice sounds calm and alert. “I’m sure.”

The horses stir when they see them, woken up from their own sleep. Cas ignores them for the moment, going to sit on a bale of hay in the corner instead. The lantern he carries throws a dim warm circle of light around him. Dean steps out of the dark to join him.

“Well - I got nothing against Balt, you know that, but - he ain’t exactly a man I’d trust alone with my sister, if I had one.”

“I don’t think you would trust anyone alone with a sister of yours.”

He laughs. “You’re probably right.”

“But I do trust him. So much so that I intend to take an unusually long time saddling the horses. I’m sorry for the cold.”

“Aw, it’ll be alright. There’s always body heat.”

He said that just off-hand, half-meaning the horses’ bodies warming the shelter, half-remembering harsher winters spent with his comrades in tents, fireless so they couldn’t be tracked. But even leaving his mouth he regrets it, an allusion Cas can’t understand or a joke he shouldn’t. If he were a younger man he’d correct himself. But the only way he’s ever found out of any situation is to brazen it out, so he lifts an eyebrow and plasters on a goofy grin.

Cas doesn’t even turn his head. He leans his shoulder against Dean’s and absently says, “I suppose.”

In the end, it’s Balt who comes to find them, grinning like he’s got a secret he’s dying to tell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm supposed to know Latin, but I don't yet. So sorry if that's ridiculous.


	14. Chapter 14

“I’m marrying your friend.”

Gabe stiffens in shock. Dean’s always been popular with the women, but he thought sharp-tongued, clear-eyed Anna would know better. Although he supposes he should be glad of a proposal - generally Winchester’s intentions aren’t so pure.

“Don’t. He’s not reliable.”

“I don’t know about that. He’s proven himself so far.”

“You’ve known him a few months, he’s hardly had a chance to lose interest.”

Now it’s Anna’s turn to look shocked.

“Who do you think I’m talking about?”

“Dean Winchester.”

“No! Are you insane? I’m marrying Balt.”

They’ve known each other for years, Gabe thinks, and they’ve snapped at each other all that time. He remembers a hundred promises Balt tried to make, and how Anna rejected every one. But then, on the other hand, he remembers her laughing as she did it, and how Balt went visiting with Cas all winter, and two years’ worth of letters while they were herding cattle. Well, hell.

“He didn’t ask my permission.”

Anna raises one eyebrow. “Do you think he needed it?”

“I suppose not.”

Gabe congratulates his sister, and then he goes and congratulates his friend, falling back on the polite formulas of his youth, phrases he can barely remember anymore. They don’t do much to conceal his surprise and skepticism, but the two people who see through him best don’t bother to look, too busy gazing at each other. So it is true, Gabe thinks sourly, that love is blind.

When Balt tells the others, Sam leaps up to slap him on the back and congratulate him, all clumsy limbs and earnest goodwill. Dean smiles brightly, and Cas less obviously and with more genuine feeling, but neither of them seem particularly surprised. 

Sam’s convinced a circuit preacher to ride out to his house for his own wedding, to avoid any possible trouble in town. Now he invites Balt and Anna to get married right along with them, in just a few weeks, and they agree. 

Very soon now, Balt will be his brother. It’s a strange thought, and Balt’s a strange man. He can’t quite fathom what the man who hates rules wants with a wife. From what Gabe sees of them together, all he seems to want is to make her laugh. He’s good at that, though. 

Anna was raised to be a debutante. She had no mother, and too many rough older brothers to be very delicate, but still - she was taught to play the piano, and to embroider, and to know what dresses suited her best. If things had been different, Balt would have been an excellent catch, a wealthy man with a slick, dangerous kind of charm and more culture than Kansas City usually sees. Now he’s a terrible idea, dangerous in a different kind of way, with nothing he can offer her. The house and fields are hers to run, like a man, with the calloused hands and sunburnt neck to match. It shouldn’t be this way, and Gabe never stops remembering that.

Anna remembers too, he knows. She’s never let go of her pride or her posture, and it gave her a bitter look, something like an exiled queen. These days, though, with Balt playing exaggerated suit and her laughing and mocking and denying him three times but never a fourth, she seems more gracious. Gabe can’t begin to understand it, but it seems to make them happy. So, he supposes he’ll be getting another brother.

************************************

It’s nice, as far as weddings go. Not that Dean has anything to compare it to. Jess’s mother comes out to their farm - her father didn’t survive the war - and of course all the family Anna’s got practically lives there anyway. The girls look different in their Sunday best - fresher and more innocent, more like actual girls than women who’ve seen more than any lady should. Sammy keeps his face smooth, but his hands shake enough that Dean ties his tie for him. Even Balt looks a little less jaded. The preacher keeps it quick and businesslike, rattling off the words like he’s not really listening to them. Dean sure doesn’t. 

And then it’s over, just like that. It seems strange to celebrate something so quietly, such a small cluster of people, one hired for the day, and four of them probably wishing they could just dispense with the formalities and be alone. Well, that’s sure what it looks like Balt is thinking. He doesn’t have long to wait. They feed the preacher a simple lunch, make a bit of small talk until he rides off, and then they scatter. 

Balt takes Anna back to their - well, married or not, it’s her house. Gabe’s promised Alfie a trip to town. They ride back with Jessica’s mother and the Harvelles, where Gabe will spend the evening drinking in the back room and Alfie will be given huge slices of pie, and then probably told to make himself useful. But Dean doesn’t like the thought of another afternoon in a smoky room with the shades down, not on a day like this. He decides to go fishing, and to take Cas with him. As they leave, he’s tempted to wink at Sammy - but stops himself in time. The jokes he makes about whores shouldn’t be applied to his sister-in-law.

There’s a place he knows where a nearby stream flows into a little lake. It’s far out in the woods, far enough that no one else ever seems to visit, and the fish are fat and stupid. If he got attached to places, this would be the one. 

Dean didn’t so much ask Cas to come as tell him, but he knew it wouldn’t be a hardship. Cas is no more meant for town life than he is. The way he looks now, leaned back on his elbows, hardly paying attention to his line, Dean knows he was right. He might not be smiling, exactly, but Cas likes it here.

And maybe Cas is right not to smile. It’s an important thing that happened today, it’s good, yes, but still a serious thing. He got a new family member. That’s not something he takes lightly. Jessica is perfectly nice, but more than that, Dean’s seen the way Sam looks at her sometimes, like he loves her so much it scares him. Dean recognizes that look. He happens to feel it himself, for the overgrown kid brother who took so much of his childhood, who got the last of his rations in camp and the last of his honor in a lie of an oath, and who can have the last of his life if he needs it, too. Sam’s all Dean’s got, and there’s not a damn thing he wouldn’t do for him. If that’s who Jessica is for him, then it’s Dean’s job to protect her too. 

Sam might say that’s a job for her husband, but he’s still such a kid himself. He trusts people, which is a damn fool thing to do. He can afford it, though. He can settle down now and get soft and ruin his eyes over books. Dean can’t imagine ever looking at someone like Sam looks at Jess, and he definitely can’t imagine anyone looking at him with the kind of simple adoration she gives Sam. So let him get soft - Dean can watch out for both of them. It’s not like he’s going to have anyone else to worry about.

Cas got a new family member today too. Balt and Anna aren’t like Sam and Jess. Balt obviously likes her, but he doesn’t moon over her, and Anna spends most of her time deliberately not looking at him. That one’s a puzzle.

“You know, I don’t understand Anna. No offense to your brother-in-law. Balt can be funny, but mostly in a way that ain’t suitable for ladies... He’s no white knight.”

“Exactly. This is not a fairy tale, Dean. I believe you know that well enough.”

Better than Cas can ever guess. He swallows against his dry throat, and nods.

“So what’s the use of chivalry? None of us are who we were, and all the things that used to guide us have gone. Who can tell what love looks like now? Balt’s never pretended to be more than he is, and Anna chose him as is, with her eyes open. It will be up to them to be happy now.”

“Do you think they will be?”

“I think... I don’t know. The world is an uncertain place. It’s best to enjoy yourself while you can, I guess.”

Dean nods hard at that. “Damn straight.” And he’s going to enjoy this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-I don't know if this is a just a southern thing or what, but traditionally the guy asks the girl's father (or other suitable male head of household) for permission to marry BEFORE proposing to the girl. People still do this.
> 
> 2-Circuit preacher: if you lived in an isolated enough area of the country, there wasn't really a town to support a preacher, so one would ride around visiting all these little stops (on a circuit) and you'd gather together and just have a single church service every once in a while. Sam has gotten one to take a detour.
> 
> 3-Weddings used to happen in the morning, and just in the best set of your regular clothing. You normally would have celebrated more, but they're trying to lay low.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s been a profitable summer. The Winchesters are aggressive enough to trust on a job, but calm enough to deal with in camp. They don’t quarrel over their cut, they don’t brag in bars, and they don’t - usually - shoot until they need to. Not only is Gabe content to work with them, he’d like to expand their scope. The harvest will be coming soon, and with it a surge of cash as farmers sell their crops. The major producers these days are carpetbaggers, and the banks they store their profits in are larger, and located in more populated areas. The temptation is too great to pass up.

Sam is enthusiastic about the idea, which means both brothers are in. Dean tends to throw his weight around, but he has little taste for this kind of planning. Neither Winchester really knows it, but Sam is in charge.

They’ll need more help for these bigger jobs, but Gabe refuses to work with raw local boys again. He wants only experienced fighters, men he knows he can trust. Sam agrees, and volunteers a friend of theirs, Garth. He’s Cas’ age - a bit too young to have fought in the war, but old enough to have come of age in its aftershocks, with the corresponding wariness and skill with a gun. Gabe is skeptical when he meets the man, too scrawny and too earnest when he smiles, but Sam assures him he can be relied on. It’s a sign of how far they’ve come that Gabe accepts Sam’s recommendation.

Balt also has someone to suggest, and Gabe immediately dismisses it. Steady as Balt has proven to be, he doesn’t need any more high-class prodigal sons out for adventure. But Balt says no, this is no aristocrat, but a working man, with as cool a head as he’s ever come across. Benny is a Cajun who used to work for Balt’s father, then as a blockade runner during the war. The backwoods of Missouri are well out of his usual way, but Balt thinks the money will lure him west of the Mississippi, and well, Gabe doesn’t have any better candidates.

Balt doesn’t have an address for Benny, but he writes an old friend in New Orleans who will probably know where he is. A few weeks later, he gets a one-line telegram saying, “Meet me at the station in a week.”

Benny returned to New Orleans after the war, where he found work with Joseph Macheca, an Italian whose real business was far more dangerous than his unassuming title of “fruit importer” implied. Benny was a strongman, shaking down ship owners by the docks, breaking the legs of men who failed to pay their debts, taking bodies out to dispose of in the swamps. Macheca’s star was on the rise, but he had competitors, foremost among them the Agnellos. Just before Balt’s letter reached him, Benny shot Raffaello Agnello in the head in front of Macheca’s shop. It was time to get out of town.

Gabe expects someone whose control is steely, someone humorless and cold. Instead Benny fits seamlessly into the group, a good-natured audience for the chatter of the others. He whistles often, as if this is a holiday, and in some ways, it is. There’s a lot of blood in Benny’s past. Armed robbery is light work in comparison.

When the weather turns cold again, the gang will have to disperse. There are too many people now for them to stay anywhere without attracting attention. They’ll each have to shift among their friends, sleeping nowhere long enough to bring down trouble on their heads. It’s proven easier than Gabe would have expected. Even now, with the grass growing well over the graves, western Missouri is very much an occupied country. For every person who’d like to lynch Gabe - and there are many - there’s one who’ll give him shelter. His network of contacts is always expanding.

For now, though, the nights are warm enough that they can sleep outside, and so they often do. The others don’t necessarily understand it, but Gabe and the Winchesters always feel best without walls to trap them. 

There isn’t much to do in camp, and everyone finds the amusements that suit them best. Sam and Balt haven’t yet tired of going home to their wives. Gabe often goes drinking with Garth - well, he drinks, and Garth keeps him company. Sam was right, he’s a useful addition, but the boy can’t hold his liquor. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Dean and Benny have become friends. They have a similar mean streak under their good humor. Gabe can never tell which side is their true nature, but they seem to understand each other. 

Funnily enough, Cas can usually be found with them. Gabe initially thought they were only tolerating his little brother, still tagging along behind the toughest men around. In fact, he resented somewhat that he hadn’t held on to that position in Cas’ mind. Now, though, he thinks the connection is Dean’s doing. He explains the finer points of their profession to Cas, solicits his opinion on more intellectual questions, and never fails to ask Cas along whenever he leaves to go fishing. Cas is a little brother, and Dean’s own is busy with his own house and wife, and it’s not as if Gabe has the patience to spend the same amount of time with Cas. Let Dean big-brother him; he’s better at family.

******************************

“What’re you workin’ so hard on, Sam?” Garth calls across the camp.

Sam looks up from the paper balanced on his knees.

“A letter to the editor.”

“What editor?”

“Of the Kansas City Times.”

Everyone’s head shoots up, but Balt is the quickest to react. He snatches the paper away and whistles.

“Listen to this, boys. ‘Just let a party of men commit a bold robbery, and the cry is hang them, but Grant and his party can steal millions, and it is all right. It is true, we are robbers, but we always rob in the glare of the day and in the teeth of the multitude; and we never kill only in self defense... but a man who is damn enough fool to refuse to open a safe or a vault when he is covered with a pistol ought to die.”

Garth grins and nods. Benny shrugs and glances to Dean, but Balt continues.

“But there’s more! ‘Some editors call us thieves. We are not thieves - we are bold robbers. It hurts me very much to be called a thief. It makes me feel like they were trying to put me on a par with Grant and his party.’”

At that, everyone erupts into laughter. Even Cas is grinning and shaking his head.

“But Sam, you can’t really mail that, now,” Dean says.

“I ain’t signing it.”

“Well, I didn’t figure you were suicidal. But it’s still too risky.”

Sam’s jaw sets in a way that makes Dean’s heart sink. He’s posting that letter if he has to slip out in the middle of the night to do it.

“Gabe, back me up here.”

“As long as he doesn’t sign it...”

Suddenly he’s outweighed, overruled by his little brother in front of the rest of the camp. Dean forces a laugh and joke about fame, and the conversation turns to other things. Dean’s mind keeps circling around it, though. He doesn’t like the feeling.

Sometime after nightfall, Cas elbows him.

“Can you tell the future?”

“What?”

“Can you?”

“No, Cas, of course not.”

“Can you change it?”

“Well, no. I guess not.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

He says it with such calm finality, like that settles everything. Dean thinks, you don’t know anything about it, kid - but he takes his advice anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Blockade runners: Since the Confederacy didn't really have industry, they were heavily dependent on imports. The Union blockaded ports, and blockade runners were essentially political smugglers. There were a lot of British involved in this, so someone already involved in a British-American shipping operation would be an excellent fit. But New Orleans was taken early, so Benny would have been operating out of other ports.
> 
> 2- This is kind of random, but the Lafitte brothers were real-life pirates out of New Orleans in the early 19th century. I wonder if that influenced Benny's name/occupation on the show.
> 
> 3- Joseph Macheca is real - he was the founder of the first Mafia organization in the US as well as a major Democratic (conservative/anti-Union) political influence in New Orleans. Raffaello Agnello was also real, and killed the way the story says.
> 
> 4- The quotes from Sam's letter are taken from a letter attributed to Jesse James and actually published in the Kansas City Times in 1872. Grant is President Grant, and "his party" is the Republican party.


	16. Chapter 16

It’s not unusual for Dean to go fishing early in the morning, coming back in time for his catch to be dinner that evening. He’s always up by dawn - Gabe, who doesn’t sleep well, suspects he doesn’t either - and his next move is to shake Cas awake. He never leaves him behind.

But now, as Gabe turns over and catches sight of the dim gray light that lets him know “tonight” has turned into “today”, he sees Dean leaving alone. Half an hour later, Cas sits up, hair sticking out at all angles, and looks around in confusion. Gabe doesn’t say anything, just watches with faint amusement as this little drama plays out on Cas’ face. What will he do now?

Cas doesn’t need long to figure it out, and he sighs, gets up, gathers his own fishing rod, and heads off in the same direction. Gabe shakes his head. His little brother can’t take a hint.

**************************************************

It just hit him in the middle of the night.

After his little talk with Cas he was distracted, but once everyone lay down, his thoughts went right back to Sam’s letter. It wasn’t Sam winning the argument. That was annoying, but there was something else bothering him. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

And then, right in the middle of one of Garth’s ridiculous snores, he suddenly realized - Sam had never been bothered about robbing. To hear him talk, they were all modern-day Robin Hoods, though Dean’d wring his idealistic neck if he started giving the cash away. But Dean remembers Sam’s first murder - not the first man he’d ever shot, but the first who was unarmed, the bank teller who just happened to look like an enemy, poor bastard. It was just them back then, alone in the woods. Sam had got this brokenhearted look on his face, a little sick, and blinking hard like he might cry. Dean had hustled him out of his blood-spattered shirt and fussed over him until he was too annoyed to be so upset. Because, after all, without Dean, Sam would never have been there in the first place. If there was blame to be taken, it was Dean’s. It’d feel right at home there with the rest of it.

Now, though, he’s thinking maybe he should have just let Sam stew in it. Maybe then he wouldn’t be writing that a reluctant, unarmed teller deserved to die. That doesn’t sound like the boy he raised.

It took Dean all night to even pin down the problem. His moral compass is shot, he’s known that for years. That’s alright. He’s supposed to be the one to get his hands dirty. Sam’s different, or he should be. Dean remembers the camp’s laughter at Sam’s letter and thinks, I don’t care. Not really, not like someone should. If no one does, who knows where we’ll end up. But it won’t be Sam, not anymore.

Around daybreak, Dean’s worries get out of his head and creep down into rest of him. He knows he’s not contagious, not literally. Or is he? Maybe all that evil packed down tight into him has turned into something physical after all. Maybe he really can’t breathe, maybe it’s consumption, come to eat his lungs, and it’s just a matter of time before he’s spitting blood. Maybe the reason he feels like there’s something crawling under his skin is because there is. And he’s laying here in camp, breathing out his foul air, and all the innocent people around him are breathing it all in...

It’s early even for him, but his choices were insanity or fishing. He steps over Cas on his way out. He doesn’t want him getting infected.

The persistent little bastard shows up half an hour later. Dean doesn’t shift to make room for him on the bank. Cas sits down anyway, close enough for their shoulders to be jostling each other. It’s his normal distance. Today, Dean slides further away. Cas shoots him a confused look.

“Just give me some room to breathe, Cas. Jesus.”

“Fine.” He says it softly, turning back to the water, and Dean’s conscience gives him a kick.

“Look, I’m not mad at you -”

“Good, you shouldn’t be. I didn’t do anything to you.”

He’s as calm as ever, but there’s a little bite behind Cas’ words. Dean came out all this way to avoid everyone; he’s not getting into a fight now.

“Just leave me alone, alright?”

“Fine.” He doesn’t budge.

“Well - go, Cas.”

“I’m fishing. You do not have to be here.”

“I was here first. You have to leave.”

“Are you going to make me?”

One part of Dean is childishly ready to punch him, and the other half is about to laugh at how childish it is. He settles for a frustrated groan.

“Fine. You want to know what’s wrong with me?”

“Sure.” He says it as if he doesn’t really care, smug little bastard.

“I’m worried about Sam.”

“As usual.”

“No, this is different. He’s changed. He’s gotten harder, darker... more like me.”

“I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.”

Dean’s laugh is harsh and loud. “Cas, buddy, you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“What don’t I know?”

Something that I don’t want to tell you, Dean’s mind supplies, and he glances away. “Ask Gabe.”

“I’m asking you.”

And why the hell not? If it’s spilling out of him, infecting everyone else anyway, why not let them see it? Why not give them a chance to run?

“You heard of Quantrill’s Raid?”

“Of course. Gabe was there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, so was I.”

Cas is waiting for more. Of course he doesn’t understand.

“I, uh, Gabe and me rode together for a while... but then we split up. He stayed with Quantrill. I went with Bill Anderson. ‘Bloody Bill’.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Yeah, well. Whatever you’ve heard, it was true. You either loved him or you hated him, right off. He didn’t waste time on manners. He got straight to what he wanted. He was a cocky son of a bitch, but by God, he’d earned it. He was only three years older than me, but he was the fiercest fighter I’d ever seen. Hell, still is. I’m older now than he ever got to be. He was only twenty-four when he died. When I think back to twenty-four - when I think back to me at twenty-one, Christ, the shit he led us into! We took on a whole damn regiment of Federals once, outnumbered two to one - and we wiped them out! He was like some kind of Alexander to us. If he’d said he was half-god, hell... In a battle, he was beautiful.”

It’s like a wave that’s been rising, and now it comes crashing back down. The old sour taste is back in his mouth.

“When he wasn’t fighting... You were lucky if Bill shot you dead. You didn’t want him to find you alive. You didn’t want to be at his mercy. Not when he had time to spend on you. Bill liked to make his point.”

Cas hasn’t yet recoiled. Well, he’s not done yet.

“I’ve taken scalps. We all did. Sometimes they weren’t dead yet. He had his horse trained so it’d trample men to death. I, uh... look, Bill and some of the others weren’t exactly... they did things they shouldn’t, to girls. I knew about it. I didn’t do anything, but - well, I didn’t do anything about it.”

Cas doesn’t look away. Not yet.

“The Lawrence raid, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Quantrill reached out to every bushwhacker in Missouri, I think. There must’ve been three or four hundred men there. Some of those boys had been riding twenty-four hours straight. They’d tied themselves onto their saddles in case they fell asleep. We met at Mount Oread - and then we all came down on that town together. We burnt anything we could get to go up, and we stole anything we liked. And we killed just about every grown man in town. Most of the boys, too. They weren’t ready for us. None of them were armed. Some of them begged - some of their mothers begged. The ones that got to guns, we told ‘em we’d spare them if they surrendered, so they did. Then we shot them. It was like a competition... Bill said he killed fourteen. He had a little string, he tied a knot in it for every kill. I didn’t keep track. I know that one... he was holding a baby. Didn’t stop me. I didn’t hit the baby. And... there were two dumb bastards who fought back. So instead of getting a quick bullet, we tied them up. I helped to hold them down, and they got tied up, and they got... tossed into a fire. And it... the way it smelled, and the screams, it was so bad, and you’d think I’d have left him, but I didn’t. I stayed with Bill. Because he was just - he was like the devil himself. Once you join up with him, there’s no getting out. Maybe you don’t want to get out.”

Cas has his mouth open, ready to say something, but he can’t yet, Dean has to get one more thing out.

“And you can’t tell Sam this, you can’t ever tell him any of this. He doesn’t know. That’s what did it, when he found me, that’s when I finally left. We fought with Bill in some of the bigger battles but mostly, we were just out on our own. Sam hardly knew him, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s bad enough, the influence I’ve had on him already. On all of you - Jesus, just look at you, Cas, you used to be a farmer.”

Cas takes that personally. His eyes flash and he straightens up, not so much smaller than Dean, and leans in a little threateningly.

“You are incredibly arrogant. You think you made me what I am? You think you’re that important?”

“Cas-”

“When did you kill your first man, Dean? How old were you?”

“My first battle. I was eighteen.”

“I was fifteen. It was in cold blood.”

For a minute Dean thinks this is some strange deadpan joke of Cas’, but he continues.

“We were going to market, Anna and I. It was our first harvest. A neighbor of ours, a Federal supporter, passed us on the road, and he stopped and asked after Gabe. This was right after the war. We genuinely didn’t know where he was, and I said so. The man called Gabe a few things, not worse than you hear in the rougher kind of bar, but - more than I wanted to hear. So I drew my pistol and shot him between the eyes.”

“Well, but he could’ve done the same -”

“He had no intention of it.”

“And besides, he cursed your brother -”

“Which was not enough to warrant his murder. I didn’t kill him for that, Dean. I killed him because I wanted him to die. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t make excuses for it. You are not responsible for the things I might do, Dean. I am. I have a black spot in my soul too, and if I had been in your place, I would probably have done the same things.”

“So - what, that means it’s okay? I should just be fine with it?”

“No, of course not. And obviously you don’t rest easy with it. But you’ve got your burden, stop trying to take on everyone else’s as well. We earned them, and we deserve them. And who knows, maybe they’re our penance.”

Dean shakes his head skeptically.

“And Dean - my story is a secret too. Gabe doesn’t know. Anna and I buried the man in the woods, and we never told anyone else. She hasn’t even told Balt.”

“God, Gabe would be so shocked. Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

Cas shifts to bump his shoulder against Dean’s, and says meaningfully, “Little brothers can be surprising.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- "Consumption" is tuberculosis. One of the later symptoms is coughing up bloody gunk. There was no real treatment for it until after World War 2, so during this period this was a common way to die.
> 
> 2- Bloody Bill Anderson is real. He freaked out a lot of the guys on his own side. Some people think it was the times that made him that way, some people think he was just a serial killer with an excuse. Everything Dean says he did, he really did.
> 
> 3- The battle Dean refers to fighting is the Battle of Centralia. Around 80 guerrillas against 155 soldiers. The guerrillas won, 123 of the 155 were killed.
> 
> 4- "He was like some kind of Alexander to us." As in Alexander the Great, the brilliant young general whose men were extremely personally loyal to him. Dean's not a big reader, but back then everyone knew those kind of stories, especially in the south. 
> 
> 5- Quantrill's Raid - otherwise known as the Lawrence Massacre. The one in Kansas, the one in the show. It's only about 40 miles from where my story takes place. Lawrence was very Union, so this was a revenge strike. It was the single largest guerrilla action of the Civil War. Dean's not exaggerating on the number of men on his side - it was in the hundreds. They killed around 200 men and boys, and the individual events described are taken from eyewitness accounts.
> 
> 6- They say when they killed Anderson, he had that string on him, to keep track of his kills, and it had 53 knots.


	17. Chapter 17

Gabe sighs and tosses down the newspaper in favor of another swig of his coffee.

“You’re right. I don’t like the sound of that.”

Sam grins crookedly.

“Bet you anything Dean blames it on me.”

Pinkertons haven’t been more than a minor nuisance for a while. Occasionally an outranged bank manager will hire one or two, and then spend even more money paying for them to ride aimless circles in unfamiliar territory, talking to one blank face after another. Gabe’s even sat quietly and listened to Jo in the next room, swearing she’s never heard of any Miltons. Except for that one unlucky agent who stumbled across the Winchester brothers, Pinkertons are just another way for a banker to lose his money.

Some of the Federals thought they could beat the rebels into submission, punish them for what they’ve done. It didn’t work. Some thought time would take care of it in the end, that familiarity would breed ease instead of contempt. It hasn’t. Boys in the schoolyard reenact their fathers’ old battles, the graves get cleaned and tended and then torn up by someone else, and the scars just settle deeper as the faces get older. The Miltons and Winchesters are not the only robbers in the state, just the most successful, and every one of the gangs has some kind of political explanation to trot out for their crimes. And when it comes down to it, none of them are lying - even when it’s about revenge, or financial gain, or simply because they don’t know what else to do, it’s also about politics. There hasn’t been a shot fired in these parts in twenty years that didn’t have political significance. The words “Republican” and “Democrat” are only the formal names of two tribes; either you’re born into one, or the other. Your first loyalty is always to your own blood, but your second is tribal, and it colors the rest of your life. Everything is politics.

Af first they may have thought it was only the aftereffects of the war, residual lawlessness that would heal with the country. But the country hasn’t healed, and now it’s become clear that a man bold and dangerous enough to try can disregard everything from the county bylaws to the ten commandments and get away with it. Crime is utterly beyond the government’s control. People like the Miltons and Winchesters strike fear in the hearts of the old Union supporters, but in other parts of the state, they’re respected, admired, maybe even glamorized. No one stopped belonging to the tribe just because they lost the war. Maybe they even love it a little more, now, in the way that no one speaks ill of a dead man. Even if it’s their own pockets the robbers are lining, they’re a symbol, a last gasp of defiance, and they find enough helpers when they need them.

The government, therefore, has decided to up the ante. This isn’t some vengeful banker calling in a few Pinkertons. The federal government is bankrolling them now, with the unlimited resource of the region’s own taxes. A single banker gets discouraged and cuts his losses, calling off a fruitless search. The government’s hunt will keep trundling on for years, decades if they need it to, with the kind of relentlessness that only a bureaucracy can keep up.

Gabe’s name will emerge quickly on any reasonable list of suspects. Cas, as his brother, and Balt, his brother-in-law, will be pathetically easy to add. The Winchesters have been recognized a few times by now. With Sam’s height, it was only a matter of time. Their wartime reputations have already begun to be resurrected, and as these stories merge with tales of current heists, they’re quickly becoming infamous once again. Sam’s regular letters to the newspapers are certainly not dampening that fire, even if no one knows it’s him. Still, Gabe doubts that it would have made much difference had Sam stayed silent. Events have a way of taking their own course.

At one point, all of them expected to get out of this business eventually. Gabe’s no longer sure that’s an option. Pinkertons are employed nationwide; if they take a train to California, the local agents will just wire west to a different office, and they’ll be hunted once more. Gabe is fairly sure that if he went back to cattle herding, if he rode away tonight, even under a false name, he wouldn’t be able to stay hidden. There are two many people around who know him as Milton, who’d recognize him. For Gabe to be safe, he’d need to leave the region entirely, go somewhere he’s never been.

Balt won’t do that. Not now, not without Anna, and she’s so attached to her land. Jess would go anywhere Sam does, that’s clear, but both the Winchesters have this sentimentality about the place where their parents are buried. Garth, Benny, would they leave? Cas probably wouldn’t. Anyway, Gabe knows that he would be much likelier to escape detection if he were alone. 

It’s a plan that’s entirely possible, even easy, and in his mind’s eye he sees himself carrying it out, unhitching his horse and just going, the long slow ride across the country - west, it would always be west - picking up odd jobs along the way, honest work for his meals and a bed in someone’s barn, while he learned to answer to some name he’d made up. He could solve all his problems this morning, by putting his back to the sun and just heading away.

But who is he kidding? He could take that long ride, but it’d be made longer by nights of wasted earnings in some whorehouse or bar, it’d peter out in some backwater town in the midwest where the money went out as fast as it came in, and he’d never reach California. Or, and he’s not sure if this is a better or worse option, he’d succumb to temptation, a man with a pistol in need of some funds - and he’d end up wanted under an alias too. For once in his life, Gabe decides to stick around.

He glances up at Sam, then over at Jess, his hosts last night. Sam is joking about Dean - although the older Winchester will probably make some noise over it - but his real purpose in pointing out that article was to gauge Gabe’s reaction. He might be trying to get his advice, he might want to test his dependability, but most probably he’s doing both. Sam is a multilayered thinker, a fact Gabe appreciates.

He sighs, and responds, “You write fine letters, Sam, but they’re hardly that powerful. Dean knows that.”

Jess makes a surprisingly good wife for an outlaw. She’s sharp enough to know what this means, but she hasn’t said anything about it, not yet, not in Gabe’s presence. Her hand is clenched tightly in her apron, though. Gabe pretends he doesn’t see it.

“Well, we’ll just have to be careful, won’t we, kiddo?”

*******************************************

“Hey Cas, you think fish can think?”

“Not these fish.”

Dean laughs. “Okay, no, not these fish.” The catch is heavy enough that Dean worries it might break the line he’s strung it on. These are stupid fish.

He groans as he stands, like his legs have fallen asleep. They haven’t, but he’s sorry to go. He holds a hand down for Cas, but his friend doesn’t take it at the fingers like a lady. He grasps at Dean’s forearm, and Dean clasps his in turn, and then stands his ground and pulls, really just an answering force to Cas’ own strong tug. They both have to turn sideways to avoid crashing into each other. Dean ducks his head away from the force of Cas’ gaze.

“No, but I mean like horses. You know how a horse’ll head back home on his own?”

“Yes.”

“How does he know how to do that? He’s gotta be thinking, at least a little, right?”

“I suppose so.”

It’s a quiet, lazy day, still reasonably warm for the season. They’re expected at Sam’s for dinner, and it’s shorter to walk along the road than pick their way through the trees, even though they’ll have to deal with the dust. Dean puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder and steers him that way.

“So if they can think, well, what else thinks?”

“Bees.”

“What? No.”

“Have you ever watched them? They like certain kinds of flowers best. They’ll fly past the others to get to their favorites. And they dance for each other.”

“Liar.”

“They do. Aristotle says so.”

Dean slides his grip to the back of Cas’ neck, where it’s strong and broad and meets his shoulders, and shakes him playfully.

“Now, Cas, that ain’t fair, using some old Greek in a sheet against me. God knows what he said, but I sure don’t. You could tell me anything, how would I know?”

A year ago, Cas would have argued his point earnestly. Now he grins, leans into Dean’s grip and says, “Yes, I could.”

“I’ll ask Sammy about it, he’ll tell me.”

“No, you’ll listen to me,” Cas says complacently, and it’s true, and it sends a worried little thrill through Dean that Cas knows it.

Hoofbeats are approaching, now, still invisible from around the bend. Dean drops his arm, and his next stride takes him slightly further away from Cas. It’s only one rider, someone who’s not in a hurry and will probably just call out a greeting on his way. Still, both men check their pistols.

The man who approaches is young and well-dressed, but not like a fashionable dandy. His clothes are sturdy, made of good material that’ll wear well and be easy to work in, and reasonably new. His horse looks fresh and healthy, his tack is in good repair, and though his height can’t be gauged from the back of his horse, he’s solidly built, a man who gets regular nourishing meals and is used to working outside. Dean’s spent thirty-some years in this county, he knows the face and name and allegiance of every man of fighting age, and this is a stranger, a strong, active, well-paid one. One well off the main road between any towns he might have business in.

He pulls up as he reaches them, and Dean gives him a tight-lipped smile. Cas doesn’t bother.

“Mornin’, stranger.”

“Good morning. Are you from around here?”

That’s a northern accent.

“I am.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the Winchester place is, would you?”

Shit. Don’t turn your head, Cas, Dean thinks urgently, for God’s sake don’t look at me. He doesn’t.

“I... I can’t say I know where that is.”

Dean tries out another smile, but it’s not working. The man’s eyes narrow. 

“You sure?”

It’s two against one, but the one’s got a horse. He can run from them or he can run them down, and his hand is resting easily on his thigh, far closer to his weapon than they are to theirs. If they draw, one of the two of them can kill him for sure - but the other’s most likely taking a bullet.

Dean hasn’t finished the thought before Cas jerks out his gun - but it’s too late, the man fires, his horse rears, Cas’ shot goes wide and he goes down with red blooming on his shirt. Years of experience help Dean resist the urge to turn to him, and instead he shoots - aiming for the chest, but the horse is rearing again, and he catches the man in the throat instead. He stays in the saddle, but he clutches at the wound on instinct, bloodying the pistol still loosely clasped in his fingers, and Dean takes the moment’s delay to dash forward, grab the horse’s reins, and aim properly. From only a few feet away, he aims for the center of the stranger’s forehead, and with a jerk and flop, the threat is gone.

He abandons the horse and its dangling rider, and finally spins to look at where Cas was sprawled. But he isn’t, not anymore. He’s scrabbling back to his feet, gun still in hand, and Dean’s knees nearly give out in relief.

“Here, whoa, Cas, sit down.”

“Get the body.”

Dean glances back to the road. The horse took off at a gallop the minute he let go, carrying the corpse a few hundred feet away before its feet shook loose of the stirrups and it fell into the dirt.

“Never mind him. Are you - lemme see -”

“What if he has friends?”

“For God’s sake -”

But Cas won’t stop moving, clutching at his side, pale-faced and too slow but looking for all the world like he’ll drag that body off the road with his one free hand if he has to.

“Christ! Alright, Cas, I’ll get him. You get your ass back into those woods and sit the fuck down.”

Cas does as he’s told, thank God, and Dean runs forward, grabs the lapels of the man’s light overcoat, and drags him towards the tree line. The fabric is thick and sturdy against his fingers, and the part of his mind that never stopped being a bushwhacker tells him it’s a shame to let it go to waste. He shoves that down, gets the body safely out of sight from the road, and then turns again to Cas.

He’s settled against a tree nearby, still clutching his side. Dean hurries over and crouches in front of him, looking for the familiar signs of a coming death - but they’re not there. Cas’ eyes focus on him with their usual clarity, and his face is ashen, but his lips aren’t. His breathing hitches in pain, but he doesn’t gurgle or struggle for breath. 

Through gritted teeth, Cas says, “I’ll be alright.”

Dean fights a strange wave of dizziness, and nods, “Yeah, yeah I think you will be. Get that shirt off, lemme see it.”

There’s a thick furrow in the flesh of Cas’ side, starting just under his breast and running down lower towards his back. Dean’s pretty sure he can see the bone of a rib where the bullet scraped along. Cas and the stranger drew at about the same time, and the movement twisted his chest away just as his enemy was taking aim. It was clearly meant for his heart.

“Jesus, Cas. You are a lucky son of a bitch.”

The blood has stopped flowing, but Dean doesn’t like the reason why. Cas fell back into the loose sandy soil, and the sticky wound is covered in a light dusting of it.

“We’ve gotta wash that off. Can you walk?”

“Yeah. Ah - slowly,” Cas grunts as he helps him up.

It’s hard to help him. He can’t put his arm around Cas’ side to support him, not without squeezing the wound. Besides, Cas’ rib probably helped deflect that bullet, and from the way he’s acting now, Dean guesses it’s cracked. He settles for holding out an arm, and letting Cas put his weight on it. It’s a short walk back to the creek, but Dean measures every step three times with his eyes before they make it. He’s not sure if Cas wants him to talk, but he can’t really help himself.

“That rib’s probably cracked. It hurts like a motherfucker, but it’ll heal just fine. Trust me, I’ve cracked ‘em before, I know. You’re gonna be laid up for a while, there’s no getting around that, but it’s alright, Cas, you’ll be fine. Gonna have a nice scar. Here we go, almost there. Careful now.”

He leads Cas all the way down the bank, until they’re standing knee-deep in water that he’s glad for Cas’ sake is fairly cold.

“Here, gimme that shirt. It’s ruined anyway.”

Cas tries to raise his arms to help, then immediately winces and gives up, holding still to let Dean pull his sleeves off his shoulders. Dean soaks the remains of the shirt in the water, then raises his eyebrows at Cas.

“Don’t lose your footing, now. Hold on to me, and hold still. This is gonna hurt.”

Dean holds his left arm out for Cas to grasp, and squeezes the shirt above his side with his right, letting the water wash over it. He's seen a doctor put his fingers in a wound, feeling out the path of the bullet, but he's almost certain it's not lodged in Cas, and besides, he can't stomach hurting him any more. As it is, Cas’ fingers tighten down hard on his arm, and he seems to be holding his breath, but he’s still and silent. Dean lets out a shaky laugh.

“You’re one tough son of a bitch, Cas.”

“Are we done?”

“Yeah, we’re done. We’ll get you home, get some real bandages for that. For now-”

Dean rips Cas’ ruined shirt into strips at the seams. He finds it slightly hard to do, and some strange distant part of his mind thinks that this is probably Anna’s handiwork, and she made this shirt to last. The bandage he fashions out of it is badly done, but it’s better than leaving the wound open.

The few feet back to the bank are filled with worries about slippery algae and unsteady rocks and muddy inclines, but Cas makes it, and Dean eases him back against a tree.

“I should go through the dead guy’s pockets. See exactly what he knew.”

“Good idea,” Cas nods, and Dean heads back to the edge of the road.

Cas has his back to him, facing the water. That’s good. Dean doesn’t need anyone to see just how comfortable he is stripping a body. At least this time it’s just the coat, though. 

Dean rifles through its pockets until he finds what he expected. There’s the sharp-edged shine of a Pinkerton badge, alright. He also finds a well-worn scrap of paper. There’s no sketch, but the description of him is detailed and accurate. This man - James White, apparently - probably realized who he was as they talked. Or maybe he didn’t. They’ll never know now. He scans down the paper. Sam and Gabe are also named and described well. They have only Balt’s nickname to go with his description. Cas is named as Gabe’s brother, but no one seems to remember him very well. All they know is that he’s got dark hair and is somewhere between 5’8” and 6’2”, which could apply to two out of three men in town. There’s a very good description of Benny - good God, someone must have been eyeballing him - but they have no name to give the face. Garth appears to have gone totally unnoticed. Well, it’s not good, but it could be worse. He tucks the paper into his own pocket, and tosses the badge back onto the body’s chest. Let them find him that way.

Dean heads back to Cas and crouches down to show him what he’s found. Cas nods as if he’s interested, but it’s clear that the excitement’s worn off. Right now, he can’t concentrate on anything other than pain.

“Okay, Cas. I’ve gotta go get Sam. I can’t walk you out of here myself.”

Cas’ hand tightens on his sleeve, and Dean feels a stab of concern - what if someone stumbles into this scene? What if that Pinkerton had friends to come looking for him after all? What if Cas takes a turn for the worse out here alone? But at the pace Cas is walking, it’d take hours to get anywhere safe, and the strain of it would suck all the strength he has left out of him. Dean has to leave him here.

“I’ll run the whole way, get Sam and some horses and come right back. You’ll be fine. Here-”

He fetches the dead man’s coat, and brings it back to lay over Cas.

“So you don’t get a chill, sitting around all shirtless and wet out here. Wouldn’t want you to survive all that and catch your death of cold...”

Cas nods. “I won’t. I’m fine.”

“You got a funny idea of fine. Just look at you.”

He’s brushing dirt out of Cas’ hair, trying to smooth down some of the more unruly bits, and he knows he should stop, that now would be the time to get up and walk away, but his hands just keep going. Cas is chilly but he’s not cold, his eyelashes flutter down when Dean’s hands get close to his eyes, his lips shift between annoyance and amusement and pain, and he just keeps reacting, not slowing down, not losing coordination, not dying. You don’t just walk away from a miracle.

Cas shivers, though, and then groans at the movement to his ribs. Fear gets Dean moving again.

“Okay, okay. Gotta go. I’ll be right back. Hey -”

He lets his hand slip down out of Cas’ hair to pat his cheek, as gently as he can while still being a man about it.

“I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Cas actually smiles at that, and not the little amused curve of the Latin-reading farmer, but the big crazy crooked grin of a bold robber, a dangerous man. 

“Me too.”

Then Cas turns his face just a little, and presses his lips to the heel of Dean’s hand for a moment.

“Go. Hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- About the bees: Aristotle does say so.
> 
> 2- The real robbers these guys are based on seem to have survived an incredible amount of physical damage. I'm assuming that some of it was luck, some of it was toughness, and some of it was a less powerful gun with a bullet that wasn't designed to turn into shrapnel in the body. So Cas lives to fight another day!
> 
> 3- Cas is actually really lucky that a doctor isn't around. Standard medical treatment at the time really was to put your unwashed hands into the wound to feel for the path of the bullet. The infection his doctors gave him, not the initial gunshot, killed President Garfield in 1881.


	18. Interlude

We passed the turning to my house as they were telling me how the Winchesters met the Miltons. Is it any wonder I watched it go by without interrupting the story?

From time to time, one of them would slow the pace of his words, glance at the other, and resume with renewed vigor. I knew there were pieces they were leaving out. The story was a bloody one, but if I had been craving the kind of gore the pulp westerns churned out, I was sadly disappointed. They didn’t describe violence so much as allude to it, leaving it to my own morbid imagination to fill in the details of a lynching or a shooting. At the time, I thought this was to shelter what they considered a delicate young mind, and it made me impatient. I wanted to hear every horrible detail.

As for their crimes, I noticed right off that they would not own to anything other than those for which they’d already done time. Even then, in a dark carriage with a boy no one would believe if he told, they were cagey. They began every other sentence with “some said” or “the rumor was”, and it was so practiced and easy that it hardly even sounded like an evasion. This was the story they told night after night, the long justification leading up to their most infamous crime, but now, off the clock, so to speak, there was nothing much in it to make me laugh. I think perhaps in place of those funny little anecdotes, I did hear more of their actual activities. If they were only repeating rumors of robberies, they sure did seem to have a very clear idea of exactly how they would have gone about them.

Not only did I listen, I watched them closely, drinking in every little movement to describe to my friends later. They didn’t do anything very exciting to report, as a matter of fact. Their weapons stayed tucked firmly away, any scars they might have had were hidden under their neat suits, and even their language was less salty than I had already heard from our local smith. Take away the infamous names, and they were just two old men I wouldn’t have given a second thought. But the names were there, and so I kept on watching, committing it all carefully to memory, and waiting for them to do something different, wild or strange.

And it’s a lucky thing I did, because it’s only now, as an old man myself, that I understand that I was seeing something pretty strange after all. They were obviously experienced in speaking together, with one picking up smoothly where the other left off, adding in details or slightly correcting the impression he’d given. But even then, there were times when the silent one would raise his eyebrows, or lean forward in interest, as if to suggest he hadn’t quite expected what was being said. Other times the speaking one would not quite manage to keep his eyes off his boots, and the other might look tactfully away as well, while I just kept staring.

As a boy I cared only about what they’d done. Now that I’ve lived as long as they had, what interests me is how they reacted to each other. How could a man you’d known so long tell a story you told so often, and still surprise you? Maybe I was told secrets, but if so I didn’t recognize them. They slipped them to each other under my nose. But still it’s strange, to understand someone’s meaning so well, and yet not know what he would say about the story that was your life, not to mention your livelihood.

Eventually they called to their driver to stop.

“Now, kid, I haven’t seen a turning in miles. Where do you think you’re taking us?”

“We passed it... a long while back.”

Irritation passed over their faces, and I hurried to apologize.

“I just - the story isn’t done, not even close! I’ll walk back, it’s fine, just lemme ride along with you until you finish!”

They glanced at each other, and one said, “Serve him right.”

The other shook his head. “All the way back to town on foot? That’s the better part of a day by now.”

A sudden chill made me shudder, and he added, “Anyway, look at him shiver. We put him out now and it’s pneumonia for sure.”

I didn’t think I was quite so delicate as all that, but I kept it to myself.

“Alright. Damn. Let’s turn around. This time, kid, you tell us where the turn is, or I’ll make you wish you had.”

I nodded eagerly, the driver maneuvered us around, and we started back the way we had come. After a minute of heavy silence, one of them cleared his throat.

“Well. Where were we...”


	19. Chapter 19

Gabe was about to ride off when Dean came running up, too out of breath for a minute to do anything than gasp his brother’s name.

Later, after they’d gathered Cas up from under a dead man’s coat, after they’d laid him down in the bed Gabe left only a few hours before, piled blankets around him and sent him to sleep with a dose of laudanum, he sat at the Winchesters’ table again, this time with a shot of whiskey, and thought, this keeps happening. And it probably always will.

Dean pushed over the crumpled paper he’d taken from the Pinkerton and took the bottle of whiskey in trade. Sam leaned over to see, forehead creased in thoughtful concern.

“Well, at least they’re not sure of the others.”

Dean nods while swallowing, but Gabe sees the reverse of what Sam says, which is that they’re very sure of the three at this table. 

He glances across the room to Jess, rolling up the linen bandages she has left. Her head is down, on her work, but all the lines of her posture say she’s listening. Gabe was surprised to see how steadily she worked on his brother. He always forgets that pretty women can be good nurses, too.

“Lucky for us you laid up such a store of bandages, Jess.”

One chore finished, she moves on to the next, gathering up the breakfast dishes she left in a pile when Dean came running up.

“It’s not luck. I know what Sam does. God forbid, but it’s better to be ready...”

Sam leans back in his chair, loops one long arm around his wife and says, “Now, don’t you worry about it,” and Gabe makes a mental note to probe him on the subject later. If Sam doesn’t want his wife to think about the risks then that’s his business, but if he himself doesn’t consider them, there’s trouble in his future.

Dean, at least, seems to understand the seriousness of the situation. He reaches for the bottle again, but before he can take another shot, Jess adds the whiskey and glasses to the stack of dishes in her arms.

“It’s still morning, Dean,” she says in quiet reproof.

“You say that like it should mean something to me,” he retorts, automatically light and teasing, but there’s not much heart behind it. He makes a wry face, but lets her take the bottle away without further protest.

Gabe volunteers to take the news around to the others. He knows Benny spent last night in the spare bed at Balt and Anna’s. No one is quite sure where Garth is, but Bobby’s is usually a good place to start asking after him. At any rate, Harvelle’s is on the way, and he can stop in and leave a message with Ellen and Jo for any of the outlaws that inevitably seem to end up there. The ride would take the rest of his morning if he could use the main roads, but as it is, taking forest trails and cutting through sympathetic farmers’ back fields, it’ll be dark before he reaches his sister’s. Jess wants to make him a lunch, but he declines, knowing that he’ll end up sharing whoever’s meal he interrupts in a few hours.

Gabe resolved to stay, and now, whatever his misgivings, he’ll keep within the boundaries of these few counties where his friends and enemies are concentrated. But the comparative darkness of a house on a bright day, the shallow breathing and careful, slow footsteps that always accompany a sickbed, he can’t bear. Even this small act of flight - blinking in the light, nodding at Jess pumping water from the well, and riding away - is a relief.

************************************

Dean ran the entire way with his hand clenched into a fist. He looked ahead to pick out a tree and said to himself, run your hardest until you reach it, and by the time he had, he’d already found a new goal to run for, all the way home. By the time he got there his heart was aching and his lungs burning, and then he set himself to leading Gabe and Sam back to the woods. He didn’t follow the others upstairs to tend to Cas. Someone had to tend to the horses instead.

That was probably a mistake. Away from all the fuss and trouble, he rested his head against one of the horses’ necks and tried to open his fist. His hand trembled, and he balled it right back up. Goddammit.

So he found more tasks on the horizon - telling the story to Gabe and Sam, a shot of whiskey to steady his useless fucking hands, showing them the paper he’d taken, another shot, listening very carefully to what the others said, another shot - but Jess intercepted him there. He’s not about to start a quarrel over it, so he let it go.

Gabe leapt at the chance to leave. Dean was jealous he hadn’t spoken up first - but he doubted Sam would like him riding away so soon after his morning’s excitement, anyway. He should lay low for a while.

Sure enough, Sam thinks he should rest, when that’s the last thing he can afford. He spends the rest of the morning chopping wood they don’t really need. When Jess calls him in to eat, he keeps shoveling in food until his stomach aches. He volunteers to fetch her water to wash the dishes, and even takes a rag and helps her dry them, too, like a little child. 

And then there’s nothing to do. For a while he sits at the table and talks at Sam, who’s writing another of his damn letters, but his brother’s gotten good at ignoring him when he needs to. There’s not even any irritation in the distracted “hm” he gives Dean.

Next he tries Jess, who has her mending out on her knees. She’s sitting in the light of the open door so that she can see better, but still, her back is hunched over the patch she’s sewing - which, Dean notices, happens to be on a pair of his own pants.

“Oh, Jess, let me do that.”

“You can’t sew.”

“Who do you think mended my shirt in the war, then?”

Jess laughs. “Would this be the shirt you were wearing when I first met you two?”

“Must’ve been, I only had the one.”

“That thing looked like a crazy quilt! No, Dean, thank you. You can close a hole with some thread, but that doesn’t mean you can sew. And if people have to talk, I’d rather they call you a robber than a beggar.”

“Well then let me get started on the churning.”

“You couldn’t do it right. Besides, that’s tomorrow’s chore. There’s no hurry.”

“Well, I was just thinking you’ll be busy, now you’ve got Cas to nurse...”

“And you’ve already got cabin fever. Why don’t you go look in on him for me?”

Shit, shit, shit. He can’t think of a way to say no. So he goes down the narrow hall to the room he used to share with Sam. It’s never felt quite this long. And all the way, the heel of his hand prickles, because nothing, not the fingernails scratching at the inside of his fist, or his tasks, or the whiskey, or all the rough work he’s done with his hand since, has been able to rub out the dry touch of Cas’ lips.

Cas couldn’t know what he was doing. Dean doesn’t know what he actually had in mind, but there’s no way he knows what he actually did. He was hurting, he was afraid, maybe he just meant it as a friendly thing... But probably not. Cas is not the absent-minded professor Dean first thought he was. He saw that boundary line, he just didn’t give a damn about crossing it.

That’s fucking terrifying. 

Cas has heard Dean’s secrets, now, but he can’t really know them. He can’t know, because he can’t see, will hopefully never see, the person Dean can become. He’s got a demon on a leash in his heart. All it takes is for him to let go.

He doesn’t know why he’s like this. Gabe fought the same battles, and he wasn’t infected. On the other hand, Benny spent the war on a boat, and he understands perfectly. There are rules that have nothing to do with the law. He doesn’t feel sorry about this morning’s Pinkerton. He probably never will. Chance made them enemies, and Dean was the better man. It’s not personal. But if he ever picks up his gun with passion in his heart again, he hopes Benny will do them all a favor and shoot him dead. 

Dean’s heart is busted, that’s all. It’s like he’s got a furnace inside, and anything he lets in, loyalty, duty, most especially love, is all burned like coal. And then before you know it, he’s as deadly and unstoppable as a runaway train.

Cas’ kiss has been sitting on his hand all day, fragile like an eggshell he can’t break. God knows exactly what he wanted to say with it, but he couldn’t know how he was tempting Dean. He couldn’t know that Dean can’t put a toe over a boundary line without going a mile further on. He’d crush that kiss, he’d burn Cas up. Fuck, he wants to.

Cas is awake when he opens the door. Dean stays on the threshold.

“Hey. You need anything?”

Cas scowls. “It hurts when I breathe.”

“Yeah... that’s the way it is. You want more laudanum? Or Jess made you some soup...”

He’s already turned to go, but Cas says, very quietly and deliberately, “I want you to come here.”

Dean closes the door. He probably shouldn’t, but if Cas is going to talk about it, he can’t risk someone overhearing. He sits on his heels by the bed. The cracks between the floorboards hurt his knees.

“I see you’re troubled, and I’m pretty sure I know why. So just forget about it.”

Dean snorts. “It’s not that simple, Cas. You can’t just do something like that -”

“Then pretend I didn’t.”

Here it is, the way out. Why can’t he take it?

“You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re - good, okay, you’re a good person, and I’m not, when I see something beautiful part of me just wants to smash it. You don’t want to get involved in something like this. I’d kill for you, hell, I just did. But if you go down this road, who knows, Cas, who knows what I might do to you in the end.”

Cas sucks in a breath, and then immediately groans.

“Damn my ribs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And you’re making me crane my neck to look at you. Sit up here.” He pats the edge of the bed. 

Dean shouldn’t - but he does. Cas folds the blanket down over Dean’s knees, showing off his chest. Old scars crisscross it and run under his fresh new bandage. “Do I look like a china doll to you?”

“No. Definitely not.”

Cas pulls Dean’s hand up to his mouth again. He kisses the skin between his thumb and forefinger, and Dean’s eyes squeeze shut against it.

“I’m not afraid of you. Maybe you should be afraid of me.”

Cas bites him, then, short but sharp, in the same place he just kissed. Dean’s eyes fly open in surprise, and Cas has that dangerous grin again. He lowers Dean’s hand back to his mouth, and kisses the middle of his palm.

“Cas, wait -”

“Tell me to stop.”

Dean doesn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- I'm self-conscious about this chapter. Thoughts would be appreciated.
> 
> 2- Laudanum: powdered opium dissolved in alcohol. Sold over the counter until the early 20th century, used for pain, coughs, just about anything you felt like, really. People gave the stuff to teething babies. Opium=laudanum=morphine=heroin, basically. Vicodin's not far off.
> 
> 3- Crazy quilts look like this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Crazyquilt-museumofappalachia.jpg
> 
> 4- For women, each day of the week had a different chore associated with it. There was even a rhyme about it. Jess is mending, which means it's Wednesday.


	20. Chapter 20

The end that Gabe keeps expecting never comes. The rumors of detectives ebb and flow, as do the conflicting, whispered opinions of their neighbors, but there is no final moment of violent truth. Gabe is still listening to the crack of every twig, still moving from bed to bed, still always within reach of his gun, still free. It’s both exhausting and exhilarating, and he doesn’t think he can keep it up forever, but then, he didn’t think he could keep it up this long. Cas’ ribs heal, leaving just another line of marred flesh to add to his collection, and they just keep going. It’s beginning to look like justice really is only a myth to keep the timid in line.

Where Allan Pinkerton’s fine young men fail, one scrawny boy did succeed in tracking them down. Of course, he has the advantage of actually being a Winchester.

If Adam Milligan were older, he might have chosen a more careful, subtle approach. But when Gabe was learning to take a scalp, Adam was still just a little boy in a county to the east, away from the worst of the fighting, and his mind works like a civilian’s. One quiet afternoon, after asking around the neighborhood with a daguerrotype of his father in hand, he walked up to his half-brothers’ house like he was paying a call in town, and nearly got himself shot for his trouble.

At the time, the Winchesters were three hours away, standing guard on the fastest road out of town while Gabe dealt with a cashier too frightened to remember the combination to the safe. Luckily for everyone involved, a knock on the head seemed to wake him up. Gabe would not have relished killing him, but once you make the threat you have to follow through, or risk turning each individual coward into a fearless and deadly mob.

Murder averted and law enforcement avoided, Gabe and Cas followed the Winchesters home. Jess was sitting up as usual - but next to her was Adam, looking up at them with wide eyes full of admiration and fear he was trying to conceal. Most of Gabe’s reputation is based on his quick thinking and his unpredictability, but the Winchesters’ physical size is part of their notoriety, and they use it to their advantage. Sam has the habit of looming intimidatingly, especially when he finds strange men sitting alone with his wife in the middle of the night. Jess stood up quickly and intervened, introducing them to their youngest brother.

Adam startled Jess alone, but once he convinced her to put down the shotgun, they started talking. He showed her the picture he had of his father, and though she’d never met John Winchester, she compared it to the one they had in the house, and it was clearly the same man. Adam had more than that, though. He also had a short note addressed to his mother and signed by John Winchester. Jess fetched the family Bible, the one where John had added the names of his legitimate sons to the family tree on the flyleaf. The handwriting was the same.

According to Adam, his mother was young and silly when she met John. She thought getting pregnant was an inconvenience, but they could hurry up and marry and no one would be too fussy about the timing of the baby’s birth. John made it clear he wasn’t going to marry her, though. For a while she thought about telling her brother who the father was. He’d have called John out, tried to force a marriage - but she knew by then that John was a stubborn bastard and a damn good shot. So she kept it quiet, and he sent money now and then, until she heard he’d been hung. 

That might have been the end of it, but the Winchester name surfaced in the papers again and again. Adam read the anonymous letters someone kept sending in, and they stirred up his blood in a way he couldn’t figure out how to settle. He was the druggist’s hired boy, the son of the town slut, too young to be a veteran and too old to rest easy with the state of things. He was also the bastard brother of some of the most feared outlaws in the state. After a while, he decided to look up his relatives.

Sam, idealist that he is, sees only someone agreeing with his convictions, and welcomes him with open arms. They’ll have to teach Adam to shoot, but even that doesn’t worry Sam. After all, he says, look how well he taught Jess.

Gabe doesn’t want a raw recruit. They’ve put together a good team, all of them men Gabe knows will have his back, and who understand their tasks. Adam wants an adventure, and Gabe doesn’t blame him for that. But does he understand how much work goes into making sure you get to have your fun again and again? Robbery is easy, avoiding capture is difficult. Still, he is apparently the Winchesters’ blood. No one is more dependable than family, and if he takes after his older brothers, he’ll have a talent for rough work. If Sam really will train him - and he seems happy to do it - then Gabe supposes it’ll be alright.

Dean says nothing. He stands there and scowls at the kid while the others discuss him, and when they finally glance to him for his thoughts, he shrugs.

“Guess you’ve already made up your minds. Don’t blame me if someone gets killed.”

Dean turns around and goes back out into the night, and looking after him, Sam huffs in irritation and stands to follow. Gabe’s seen what happens next far too many times, back in the days of Michael and Luke’s fights. Dean and Sam don’t discuss things, they talk past each other until their frustration explodes and someone has to wade in to break it up. Gabe certainly isn’t the one to have a heart-to-heart with him either, but Dean usually seems to tolerate Cas pretty well. He nods at his brother.

“Will you go figure out what the hell that was about?”

Cas nods, takes a lamp and heads for the door, then turns back as something strikes him.

“He probably won’t want to come back to sleep in the house.”

That does sound childish enough for Dean.

Cas attempts a smile on Adam, and says, “You two take the spare room, then, we’ll just sleep in the barn.”

It’s unpleasant, sleeping in the same room as a stranger. Gabe can never get comfortable with a gun under his pillow. He likes the thought of a pile of hay next to a sullen Winchester even less, though, so he just grins back at Cas and says, “Good idea.”

***********************************

Dean expects Sam to come stomping after him, demanding to know what’s wrong with letting Adam waltz in and join them, like there’s just limitless space for brothers in his life. All it is to Sam is more recruits for his dead cause, what does he care about editing the fucking family tree.

But Sam is probably right. He sees things more clearly than Dean. It’s obviously better to put your faith in ideas than people, because look at how you can be misled. If there was one thing Dean thought his father was, it was loyal.

He doesn’t turn around when he hears footsteps behind him. Let Sam trail after him for a change. It’s quiet all the way to the barn, though, and that’s not like Sam at all. The hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle, and when he reaches the door he spins around in challenge.

It’s Cas. Most of him relaxes again.

“I’m supposed to ‘go figure out what the hell that was about.’”

“Did Sam say that?”

“Gabe. You and Sam make him nervous. You’re too much like our older brothers.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m done talking about brothers, Cas,” he snaps.

“Then deal with your problem yourself so we don’t have to,” Cas snaps right back.

“It’s not a problem, it’s a normal fucking reaction to be skeptical when a stranger just - walks up and says hey, lemme in your family! Sam’s too trusting. If I hadn’t seen my dad’s handwriting on that note...”

“You think he’s an impostor?”

“No. No, he even looks like my dad. I just didn’t know the man as well as I thought, I guess...”

Cas tilts his head like he’s seeing something for the first time.

“Oh. This has nothing to do with Adam. But - clearly it was after your mother died. You couldn’t expect your father to remain alone forever.”

“Why the hell not? I would.”

The casual observer probably wouldn’t have seen the change on Cas’ face - but Dean ain’t exactly casual. Cas glances quickly at the house, then brushes past Dean to go inside the barn. Dean follows.

You can’t bar the door from the inside. The light’ll shine through the cracks of the door, and if anyone else comes looking, they’ll know where to find them. They can’t stay here long, then, and Dean doesn’t understand why Cas bothers to hang the lamp on its hook. If he wanted a kiss he might have risked it outside. If he wanted to punch him he could obviously do that in the open. Cas takes his time about it, too, his back to Dean while he taps the lamp to set it swinging and ensure it doesn’t slip. All the light in the room tilts crazily from one wall to another, and Dean feels seasick, wondering what he’s missing.

Then the light steadies, and Cas is back, drawing his head down those few inches to meet him. Dean kisses him like he’s not sure he’ll ever get to do it again, because he’s not. Even when Cas pulls back to breathe he keeps his hands on him, shifting over his shoulders while he still can, because the look on Cas’ face is terrifyingly serious.

“I’m not some - virginal schoolgirl.”

No, that had been surprising, like so much about Cas. He was a refugee once, and in a way it never left him, like he’s always, everywhere, a little bit of a stranger. He left Missouri a boy, but he grew tall and strong out in Texas, close enough to a man to attract a certain type. That’s fine, Dean can hardly criticize. He’d rather not talk about it, though, and Cas seems determined to.

“You are certainly not the first -”

“Well, hey -”

“No, let me finish. What I mean is - you’re the last.”

Oh? Oh... Part of his mind warns him not to relax yet, not with that look on Cas’ face. His voice is embarrassingly quiet, but he doesn’t dare raise it.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a... large thing. Something to lose.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s like Dean can see the minute Cas decides, to hell with it, he’ll take the risk. When Dean kisses him they’re both smiling too much for it to be very good. Their teeth click together, and it hurts, but so what. He’s got time to do it again. But not very much - they need to be getting back. This time it’s Dean that pulls away.

“Someone’ll come looking for us.”

Cas shakes his head slowly.

“I told them you’d probably be too angry to come back inside. I said the two of us could just sleep in the barn.”

Dean laughs at that, feeling strangely proud of Cas’ foresight, like it reflects on him. Maybe it does, look what a smart - friend, or, well - look what a smart man Dean has. So he does have the time, after all, to drag a hand through his hair, and kiss him right this time.


	21. Chapter 21

Robbing a bank is a bit like chopping down a tree. You can only do it once. Gabe and Sam constantly have their eyes open for other lucrative prey, but in the meantime, the gang has begun traveling further afield. 

These days they often cross state lines, staggering themselves in twos and threes on trips that take days. Two tall men with a vague resemblance to the Winchesters can clear a small-town Main Street closer to home, and some poor little bastard was shot last month because he had Gabe’s foxy features. Further afield, they have a bit more freedom of movement, and can take their time reassembling at the local landmarks that serve as their meeting points. They spend a day laying around, eating well and sleeping late, resting up for the hell-for-leather ride they’ll have after they strike. Two or three men are always sent to scout the town itself, riding around or even through it until they know its layout well enough to draw it out for the others to study. At this point, everyone has taken on a specific role of his own, but they review anyway.

Garth is Gabe’s favorite scout, an unlikely-looking outlaw with a surprisingly good eye for detail and a disarming way of getting to the information he wants. He’s even chatted with bank employees the day before a raid. Cas is less charming, but just as observant, and somehow he still doesn’t look like he’s ever seen violence, not when he’s got his shirt buttoned up. But because their appearance in town again the next day would rouse suspicion, Garth and Cas can’t be used for close work during the actual robbery. Instead, Gabe relies on them to secure the gang’s escape route out of town. They wait at the narrowest place - a bridge, a side street packed tight with houses, anywhere an ambitious sheriff might send a posse to block their way - and keep that corridor clear for the others to ride through before following. They’re the first two to ever enter the town, and the last two out.

Sam is the group’s self-elected spokesman, the one with the philosophical justifications for it all, and he tends to weigh in heavily on their choice of targets beforehand, but during a robbery, his usefulness is limited. Unlike some of the others, ‘outlaw’ screams from every inch of Sam, and there are a lot of inches. Sam’s body doesn’t know how to hide its intent, and that quality can win over just about anyone when he’s being earnest and idealistic, but it makes him a screamingly obvious lookout, even if his face weren’t so familiar. Sam always enters the bank, where he won’t be visible from the street and his notoriety can work to their advantage. It’s the riskiest job of them all, but it’s the only place he can be used.

Alone or with another partner, Gabe suspects Dean wouldn’t be so easy to recognize. Next to his giant of a brother, though, he’s clearly the other Winchester, and he’s just as obvious. Dean is always next to Sam, and so he’s always in the bank.

Sam may be the gang’s public face, but Gabe is the originator of most of their tactical plans. In the heat of the moment, especially when something unexpected happens, the others look to him. It’s best, then, if he’s in the open, able to see and be seen by most of the gang. But Gabe’s also got a familiar face, and for the same reasons as the Winchesters, it might be better if he stayed inside the bank. Gabe makes that decision differently from town to town.

Balt’s an excellent lookout, cool-headed but fast to react to a legitimate threat. He’s always stationed on the street, near enough to the doors to the bank to whistle or call if he starts to see law-abiding citizens gathering. It’s very rare, but occasionally someone does decide to be a hero. Balt is philosophical about their deaths. If everything went to hell and it came to a shootout, Balt would also cover for the ones in the bank, who are vulnerable as they step out one-by-one, before retreating under the covering fire of Garth and Cas in turn. That, however, is a plan that’s never been tested, and hopefully never will be.

Benny and Adam are flexible, shifting between all three assignments as Gabe judges the situation. Adam has decent instincts, but he’s inexperienced. He’s an extra body, an extra gun, and that’s never a bad thing, but Gabe takes care that the brunt of an assignment never falls on his shoulders. On an easy job, he might even go into the bank with his brothers, but when things are touch-and-go, Gabe wants him out of the way, and leaves him to be babysat by Garth and Cas. Benny is the opposite case. Nothing rattles him, and he’s used to far dirtier work than he ever has to do with the gang. He’s the reinforcement Gabe places wherever he sees a weak point.

Tomorrow’s job promises to be an easy one. Garth managed to talk to the sheriff’s deputy, who actually shuddered when he mentioned the Winchesters and Miltons. He explained that the actual sheriff was out of town at the moment, and the bank had a back door that led to a side street out of town. He told Garth the worst thing he could imagine at that moment would be a robbery like that, because he wouldn’t know what to do about it. Garth nodded sympathetically, and then headed straight back to camp to reenact the whole scene for the gang’s amusement.

“What I wouldn’t give to see his face tomorrow,” Balt sighs. “Honestly, I might have told him who I was right there. Just to see it.”

Across the fire, Adam looks surprised. “And foul up the whole job?”

Gabe grins at his brother-in-law. “Hell, I would’ve, too. It’d be worth it.”

“Guess I’ve got more self-control than you boys,” Garth shrugs.

“That ain’t hard,” Benny drawls, and everyone’s conversation descends into general laughter and good-natured insults.

Two don’t join in, though. Dean lays an elbow on Cas’ shoulder and leans in to tell him a story at a volume Gabe can’t hear, punctuated with gestures and some sort of silly face. He can tell when Dean reaches the punchline, because his stoic little brother throws his head back and laughs.

“Hey, what’s so funny, Cas?”

Dean drops his elbow and sits upright again to address the rest of the group.

“I was telling about this time during the war. We were trying to ruin the railroad. Well, we were mostly wearing blue by that time, and this engineer, he thinks we’re Federals. He’s got this whole train of the real thing, on leave from the fighting in Georgia, and he gets right up to our blockade before anyone suspects a thing...” Dean pulls that face again, popeyed with fake terror, and everyone laughs. “I think half of ‘em died of heart attacks.”

Cas sits up straight, like an idea’s just come to him, and brightly proposes, “Let’s rob a train.”

Benny snorts skeptically, but Cas continues, “Dean’s stopped a train before, so why not again? Some of those safes hold a lot of money.”

It would be a convenient solution to their little cash flow problem. Banks, once emptied, take a long time to refill, but trains are constantly reloading, and their tracks crisscross the country too often for the law to be able to predict where they’d strike. Besides, this is a good crew, steady and disciplined, and Gabe’s pride is tempting him to attempt something big with them, something to ensure they won’t soon be forgotten. If Bloody Bill could pull off a train, Gabe can do it too.

“That’s a big risk,” Sam says slowly, eyebrows raised at Gabe.

“But one I think we can handle,” Gabe answers.

Dean laughs and pushes at Cas’ shoulder again. “Alright, Cas, I’ll stop you a train.”

***********************************

The newspapers don’t exactly write up which trains are full of cash. You have to take your chances when you see them. So they’re all the way out in Iowa, getting ready to rob Council Bluffs, when Cas comes back from scouting with word of a likely-looking train and they change targets.

It’s not hard to derail a train. You take away the track, and the thing goes right over. They watch the sun set while they rip up the boards and mangle the metal, just in time for the night express.

Back in the woods, waiting for the crash, Gabe hands out white hoods with eyeholes cut into them.

Benny raises an eyebrow. “We playing dress-up?”

“We’re gonna be up close and personal, and I don’t need any more faces getting recognized.”

Garth pulls his on, and makes a smothered, annoyed noise. “How’m I supposed to breathe in this thing?”

“Just do it, alright?”

Dean’s smells doughy, probably because it used to be a flour sack. It sticks in his nose and throat. His hand taps out a rhythm on his knee while they wait. It’s not nerves, not really. It’s energy, building up, ready to explode. He wants it to start already. Next to him, he sees Cas’ hooded head turn to look at his hand. He repeats the rhythm on his own knee, and Dean grins wide at him and gets flour dust in his mouth.

The train is a low pounding rumble, and then it’s a louder roar, chugging up the steep incline they’ve chosen, coming sharply around a bend - then it screams like it’s dying, and that’s their cue to run.

They come out of the bushes firing into the air, shouting for obedience over the screams of the passengers. The front half of the train’s piled up on itself, but the back cars are still upright. Dean doesn’t see the engineer, but there’s a lot of blood on the broken windows of the cab. The conductor is standing wide-eyed in the door to one of the cars. Dean points his gun at him, and he ducks back somewhere inside.

Gabe and Benny head directly to the baggage car. The expressman will open that safe, or Benny will make him very sorry he didn’t. The others split off into separate passenger cars, working in pairs.

The crowd in Dean and Cas’ car is mixed, women and children but also some men. Most of them are crying, hunched over as if that will protect them from a bullet, but two young men in a corner have a shifty look about them. Dean points to them, and Cas nods and strides up. They stiffen, but Dean shakes his head.

“Now, now, fellas, if you’re not careful you’ll get someone killed. Fire a gun in here and God knows where the bullet’ll bounce around. Might hit a baby. You don’t want that. I don’t want that. So let’s hand over the pistols.”

They pass them to Cas, who tucks them away into his coat.

“And now how about your watches. And any cash you might happen to have on you. And folks? That goes for the rest of you too. Earrings and necklaces, ladies, fancy hairpins too, all of it. Let’s go, hurry up!”

Dean tosses his bag to one side of the car as Cas hands over his to the passengers on the other side. Then Cas comes back to Dean in the center of the car, and they put their backs to each other, watching their targets closely. Most of them are slow about it, fumbling, probably trying to keep something back.

Then Cas’ warmth leaves Dean’s back with a sharp jerk, and his heart gives an answering one as he spins around. There’s no immediate threat, though, not to anyone he cares about, anyway. A chubby older man in a nicely cut suit is frozen in fear, with Cas’ pistol laid gently, almost lovingly, against his temple.

“You didn’t empty your pockets.”

“I did -”

“You took something out of them, yes. Not everything. Give me the rest of it, or die.”

Dean should turn back to watch his own half of the car, but he can’t look away. Cas isn’t bluffing, Dean knows. He’ll do it, and Dean almost wants to see him do it. When Dean’s angry he feels like he’s burning up, but Cas is icy cold, and sends a strange shudder down him, like jumping in a cold creek on a hot day.

The man empties his pockets. Cas withdraws his gun, quietly saying, “Thank you.” Next to him his panicky wife struggles with the diamond ring on her swollen ring finger. Cas watches her for a minute, then says, “Keep it.” Hidden under the mask, Dean smiles and rolls his eyes.

The bags have just been filled when gunshots ring out from another car. They grab them and run back into the next car, but the others are already rushing forward.

“It’s fine!” Adam calls. “Just got surprised by that damn conductor!”

“Hurry up, let’s go!” Gabe calls out. 

They jump down from the train and run back to their horses. Dean rips off his hood and breathes in the crisp night air. Holy shit, they did it. They got away with it! He screeches out a rebel yell and kicks his horse, and as he takes off through the fields he hears it echo back to him from the brothers surrounding him, and grins sharp and fierce. God help anyone that tries to catch them tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Dean says he was "mostly wearing blue" - Union soldiers wore blue, Confederates wore gray. Guerrillas obviously never got a uniform, so if they didn't have gear or clothes, or their victims had better quality, they took it off them. Eventually they're apparently wearing mostly their enemies' uniforms.  
> 2- The night express train has a special baggage car on it with high-value baggage, in this case money being shipped west for payroll. It's a very good take.  
> 3- Yeah, they're wearing KKK hoods. If this is massively offensive to you, well - good. It is to me too, and I almost left it out of the story as a result. But that's how it actually happened, and I didn't want to twist around or clean up history. One note about the KKK: there are actually two foundings of it. This version, the first one, springs up immediately after the Civil War, but it's not really an organization, it doesn't have a membership or any real leadership. It's just a name that anyone committing crimes with an anti-Union leaning claimed. By the mid-1870's, which is where we are now, it was already dying out. No contemporary observer seems to have thought that these outlaws were using it as anything other than a convenient disguise. It's still really unpleasant, but that's history. The second KKK, the one we know from the 20th century, was founded or revived in 1915.  
> 4- Diamond ring: the diamond engagement ring as a middle-class tradition is the creation of DeBeers marketing in the late 1930's. But nobility and aristocracy were doing it a lot earlier than that, so my point is, this is a very wealthy social-climbing couple.  
> 5- Here are actual Confederate veterans doing a rebel yell. Apparently it was scary at the time, but it sounds kinda hilarious now. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6jSqt39vFM


	22. Chapter 22

When Balt and Gabe ride up, Alfie’s waiting for them. Not perched on the steps of the porch, as he did when he was a boy, and as Cas did before him - he’s too old for that now, too busy with a grown man’s chores. Still, Gabe suspects it’s design, not chance, that has given Alfie work to do near the house today, instead of sending him to the few fields they still maintain or to the woods to hunt. He’s cutting new shingles for the roof, and as they come up he lets his axe fall into the log beside him and stretches his back before coming to greet them.

It startles Gabe a bit to realize that his family’s final child is old enough for this. Years ago, somewhere in the back of his mind, Gabe made his peace with the thought that, whether it was death or just circumstances, he had no future with the people who shared his name. In that dark mental corner, everyone is preserved in sepia tones, as they would be had they ever sat for a portrait when Gabe laid them to rest. Even now, after years longer with them than he would ever have expected, in a way they’ve remained consigned to his memory. The Cas he trusts to scout a town has little to do with the boy in his head; they are two different brothers. One, he supposes he loves in an everyday sort of way, the kind that can take jostling, disagreements or jokes, that can bear up under the risk and worry of a robbery. The way he feels about the other is like a fine piece of china, seldom handled for fear it’ll break. Memory-Cas remains with the rest of his siblings, both living and dead, carefully put away on their shelf, and so Gabe rarely has to notice the passage of time. 

But here is Alfie, who in memory can barely walk, baby-faced but strong, competently repairing the roof of his house. The shock rattles the china in Gabe’s mind, and for a minute he thinks, Cas was this young when I first came back to find this house, I was this young when I rode out to join Quantrill, Luke and Michael were hardly older than this when our father died, and Alfie was so young he doesn’t remember them, and I - I’m older now than they’ll ever be. Like some kind of perverse trade, a growing Alfie demands two brothers who did not. 

Gabe trips Balt and makes a crude joke, and in the confusion of his brothers’ responses he settles baby Alfie back on the shelf, and sets himself to getting to know this newborn man in front of him.

************************************

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

It’s a lazy attempt at a reproof. Cas’ heart isn’t in it.

“You thought it was funny.”

Banks are easy, trains not much harder, and it’s not like they’re giving them up. But there was a county fair, a whole box office full of flush farmers’ cash, and what were they supposed to do, just pass that up? And then, all those people cringing away from them, at least half looking more awed than afraid, the fucking definition of a captive audience? It brought out the showman in Dean, and in Balt and Gabe too. Between them they improvised a little speech about robbing the rich and giving to the poor (what, Dean’s sleeping in the woods, that’s like being poor), and the newspaper printed it word for word. Or what the words would have been if they had been written by a sympathetic editor instead of coming out of the mouths of three outlaws fooling around while holding a crowd at gunpoint, anyway.

“You’re a showoff.”

“I like to see you laugh.”

“And a sap.”

Dean slides over into Cas with enough force to jostle his shoulder, at the same time wrapping an arm around him to keep him close and snatching the paper out of his hands. 

“Yeah, hotshot? Guess who finally got noticed?”

He points further down in the article, where it describes a suspicious man who spent some time wandering around asking questions the day before the robbery. Since they were masked, he can’t be positively identified as one of them, but the assumption is there.

“‘...Gave his name as Castle, said he was a Kentuckian, straight as an Indian, about 6 feet high, fair skin, round face, large full blue eyes, about 23 years old...’ That’s you, Cas.”

Cas shrugs. “Oh well. They still haven’t connected my name with my face.”

“You think you can do anything you want, don’t you?”

Cas tilts his head, and Dean lets the movement slip his hand from his shoulder down to his hip.

“I’m fairly sure I can,” he says, dark and flat in that tone of voice with a hint of amusement at the bottom that only his friends can hear, and possibly only Dean can hear the challenge under that.

It’s serious, that newspaper description. Dean’s worried about it, he really is. But there must be plenty of men who are young and tall and fair, and yes, Cas stands up straight with the kind of grave composure white men don’t usually have, and yes, you could go swimming in his eyes, but that’s not too specific, really. They didn’t mention the lean muscle in his arms, the strange rough-smooth texture of his scarred chest, the dark unruly hair on his head and, to a lesser extent, elsewhere. They didn’t say how all his individual bones look so fragile and his body put all together is so sturdy, or how everything he says, taken word for word, is harsh and cool, and it’s only listening to the whole pattern that you hear the strong sweet current running underneath. That’s what makes him stand out, and they don’t know about it. So Cas is safe.

Besides, even if he weren’t, Cas is perfectly capable of protecting himself. And Dean’ll be there to back him up.

Cas knows this, and right now he’s lingering, keeping Dean alone with him when they should be heading to meet the others. Dean ain’t exactly complaining. There’s no way Dean’s going to admit this out loud, but Cas is right. He can do whatever he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- I've got an insane amount of work coming to a head in the next few weeks. I'd like to stick to updating around every 3 days but I just can't make any promises. Just know if it doesn't get updated for a while, it is NOT being abandoned - life's just kicking my ass.  
> 2- The description of "Castle" is an actual quote from a real newspaper description of a bank robber of the time, name and all. That fit too nicely for me not to work it in somehow.


	23. Chapter 23

“You’ll take Adam Winchester, but you won’t take me?”

“Well, he is a bit older -”

“And about half as good a shot! You know I could handle it.”

There’s no doubt in Gabe’s mind that he could. Adam was raised without anyone to teach him so much as how to clean a gun, but Alfie can’t actually remember a time before his brothers came home late with ill-gotten gains. He’s been aware of how to pick a target or fence a bond since he was a little boy, and after so many years of fireside stories, he’s as familiar with the gang’s methods as any of the veterans.

For a moment he thinks to say that Alfie hasn’t been tried at the sight of blood or the threat of danger, but then he suddenly remembers that, of course, he’s grown up with them too. Alfie was eleven years old when Cas was hung, too small to do anything other than watch from the restraining pressure of Anna’s arms, and though he never speaks of it, how can it be anything other than the defining moment of his childhood? He witnessed his brother die a gruesome near-death, and he’s already spent many a night hiding in the woods, when he was younger and less able to protect himself. If anything, he’s better adapted to these conditions than Gabe is himself.

Both of Gabe’s younger brothers have a way of getting very calm when they’re under threat. In the beginning, he read it as naivete, thinking Cas genuinely didn’t understand the danger he was in. He knows better now, but it’s something he doesn’t personally understand. Gabe’s nerves, his secret cowardice, his flashes of rage and regret - maybe they are because he’s a different breed. He grew up in a world that fancied itself a modern Athens, that praised his wit and tried to cultivate his tastes. Much of his character had formed when it collapsed around his ears. His brothers - plucked early from their home to survive on starvation rations and brutality - are Spartans. If Cas hadn’t had battles to fight at home, Gabe is fairly sure he would be fighting them abroad. The look on his face after a confrontation is more like satisfaction than anything else. Something hungry in him is fed only by conflict.

Maybe their mother had a lover, because Gabe can’t see how Cas could be Chuck’s son. But then, Michael and Luke loved to argue, too. They would have loved to have Cas around, bold and direct in the way they always were. Maybe, then, this is their mother’s inheritance? Gabe doesn’t remember her, but judging from her children, he imagines she was a formidable woman. It’s only Gabe who is like his father, twisting aside and around obstacles instead of conquering them, spinning long elaborate explanations to himself while the rest of the world gets on with living. As a boy he was impatient with his father at times, but now, Gabe suspects he knows exactly how he felt. Most of the time, Chuck probably wished he was somewhere else.

Alfie’s mother survived less than two years of marriage to his father: just long enough to marry, give him yet another son, and then die of childbed fever. Gabe hardly knew her, just that she was young, pretty, and eager to make friends with the brood she was suddenly responsible for. She indulged him, and he liked her for it. He has no idea what she was really like, it it’s her spirit or the harsh lessons of his life so far, but Alfie is nothing like his father, or, secretly, Gabe. He’s like Cas, and if he isn’t busy with the others, he’ll just get into trouble in town, fighting the enemies his brothers have made. One way or another, this is what he’s bred for. It’d be foolish to deny it now.

Gabe ignores Anna’s glare, and says, alright. Alfie can join up.

****************************

It’s late. Everyone else has been here for hours, the sun is long gone, and where the hell is Cas?

“That’s it, I’m going looking.”

Gabe shakes his head. “There’s no point.”

“Your brother’s missing! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Both of my brothers are missing, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. If they’re alright then they’ve got a good reason not to be coming back here. Maybe they’re being followed, I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been arrested. If they’re not alright - well then there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“What if they’re hurt somewhere?”

“It’s dark. You wouldn’t be able to find them unless you tripped over them, and they’re sure not going to be calling out for help. They know where we’re supposed to be. If they can make it back, we have to be here waiting. If they can’t - then we’ll start looking at dawn tomorrow.”

Cas wasn’t arrested. He’d shoot his way out or die trying, and that, fuck, is the problem.

It’s Alfie’s first job, and Dean has no problem with the kid. Gabe put Cas in charge of him, and then he held both of them back at the outskirts of town, safe from most of the trouble if any were to start. Dean had no problem with that either. Anything that keeps Cas out of the path of any possible bullets is a great idea. Except that left the two younger Miltons as the last ones out of town, it left Cas with no backup other than his completely green kid brother, and now Gabe’s down two brothers and acting like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience, and that, Dean has a giant fucking problem with.

What if he’s somewhere out there in the dark, quietly bleeding out? Dean can’t imagine anything worse. Except maybe if he made it back, still alive but not for long - and Dean was gone, out looking for him, and he missed him -

“Dean!” Gabe snaps. “If there was something to be done, I would be doing it. There isn’t, and anything we try might make the situation worse. Stop pacing and sit down. We all need to rest. We might need it.”

His face is grim, he isn’t exactly doing a jig, but Dean still thinks Gabe’s a cold, heartless bastard. He’s also probably right. Dean sits down. The others are quiet, heads ducked low, staring into the fire or off into the trees. They might not be on the move, but no one’s getting much sleep tonight.

The crackling sound of someone coming through the underbrush jerks all of their heads up at once. Whoever it is, they’re on foot, and they’re not making any attempt at subtlety. Is it the Miltons? Or detectives, or just some drunken idiot taking a shortcut? Everyone’s hands slide to touch their weapons, but then the rustling and snapping stops. For a minute, there’s nothing but silence.

Somewhere out there in the dark, someone whistles. It’s not a high, cheery, “come-and-look”, it’s not a signal at all. It’s low, like a question.

Gabe calls back, “Yeah?” Like someone’s trying to get his attention from across a room. It works, though. The footsteps start up again, a little bit faster now, and they all get to their feet, pretty sure they know who it is, hoping they do.

There he is, alive and moving just as fine as ever, and Dean has Cas’ shoulders between his hands before he even knows it, looking him over. Cas’s clothes are covered in dark blotches he can’t quite make out by the dim light of the fire - is it blood? Something is crusted on him...

Cas twists out of his hold without looking at him, a little like he’s brushing off a mosquito. Instead he turns to the rest of them, squinting his eyes against the light, and says to no one in particular, “Alfie is dead.”

At the same time, Sam and Balt step forward, asking, “What?” Benny shakes his head, unsurprised. Garth curses, Adam’s head jerks around, watching everyone else’s reaction, and Dean reaches another hand for Cas’ sleeve, but he twitches it away, focusing only on Gabe, who comes up to stand in front of him, grim and deathly calm.

“How.”

“We were ambushed. Two Pinkertons and the local sheriff. Alfie killed two of them. The one who shot him tried to run, and he rode after him, he killed him. But he - that was the last thing he did.”

Gabe nods, and his voice gets even softer than before. “What’s on your clothes?”

Cas looks down in surprise, and Dean can see him remember when he stretches his blackened hands away from his body like he doesn’t want to touch anything.

“That is dirt. I dug a place... so no one could bother him while I was gone. I buried him. Temporarily. Now that I have help, he can go to hallowed ground.”

Cas could be a tin soldier for the amount of emotion he’s showing, and Dean wonders if he might have gone a little crazy. Christ, if he imagines digging Sammy’s grave alone - and with what? A rock? The very idea runs a cold shiver down his spine. All his muscles are screaming at him to wrap Cas up and protect him from the world outside, but even if no one else was around, Dean knows that wouldn’t do a damn bit of good, not when what’s slicing him up is inside. He reaches for his sleeve again.

“Sit down, Cas.”

Cas slips away again, easy and graceful, and if he shows any emotion at all it might be irritation. “No. I have to get him to hallowed ground.”

Somehow everyone’s still looking to Gabe, as he should decide this too. He nods slowly, and turns to the others. “If you want to come, come.”

They have their things rolled and packed together in minutes, ready for the slow, careful ride they’ll have to make on a mostly moonless night. Last of all, Garth kicks dirt over their fire, and then everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Childbed fever aka puerperal fever: second highest killer of women in the era (behind tuberculosis). This is an infection of the reproductive system which, once again, was in large part caused by doctors being filthy, and if you got it, you were in big trouble.
> 
> 2- Cas is worried about people "bothering" Alfie's body because he saw a lot of dead bodies get mutilated during his youth, not because it's particularly likely right then.
> 
> 3- The general religious tradition these people exist in places no value in where you're buried. It would say the soul is immediately gone for good to wherever it was going, so the body becomes completely irrelevant - and actually, assuming you believe the person went to heaven, you shouldn't really be mourning very much, so visiting a grave is not something you would do very often. A churchyard is a perfectly acceptable place to be buried, but so is your own land. So Cas' singlemindedness about where to bury Alfie is not religious, it's emotional, and they're all basically just going along with him.


	24. Chapter 24

They’re in Garth’s old neck of the woods, and he leads them to a sympathetic pastor, shocked and horrified but also willing to say a few words over the unofficial burial in the back of his churchyard. 

Gabe is not sure that he feels grief, or anger, or any normal emotion. Maybe he will later. For now, all of that is swamped under the suffocating wave of how just plain wrong this feels, the way his stomach has twisted up, revolting against something so unnatural it must be the devil’s work. Everything about it is wrong - the body, which is not Alfie, doesn’t even look like Alfie, too large and solid for the baby he remembers and too lax and weak for the man who was starting to take his place - the dim light of the lamps and the hushed words this stranger in his nightshirt mutters, more like some pagan ritual they have to accomplish than a Christian burial - and most of all Cas’ hands. They won’t stop touching Alfie, resting on his cheek and then fluttering away to settle again at the top of his head, still dark and filthy, and underneath as pale as the corpse itself, mottled like some kind of sickening graveyard moth, and something inside Gabe is screaming to rip his brothers apart, to pull Cas away from his fond embrace of a corpse, to protect Alfie from those awful hands - but he doesn’t. He sways a little on his feet, but he keeps it to himself, and they observe the proprieties. Then everyone else scatters, and the Miltons turn to go home.

Anna knows the minute she sees them. She doesn’t even ask any questions, just softly says, “Oh, no,” as sick as Gabe feels.

They sit anyway, by the fire where they used to tell Alfie what they’d done, and Cas repeats his story. Gabe wants to shake him as he dwells on the men Alfie killed, as if Anna cares, and on the gruesome detail of his double burial, which she didn’t need to know - but he keeps it to himself. He keeps silent, and so does Balt, because family they may be, but they are not the core, and it doesn’t feel like their place to speak.

Anna’s voice is quiet and firm, trembling only at the very edges of her words. “I told him not to go. But he grew up on your stories. He couldn’t resist.”

Cas bows his head.

“And Cas learned it from you two. Well, there aren’t any more brothers for you to snatch from me, Gabriel. You’ve taken the last one.” 

Her volume and pitch are sliding steadily upward as she talks. Balt reaches a hand toward her, and she jerks her arm away from him. It works to calm her, but not in the way he expected. There’s an icy resolve to her now.

“Get out of my house.”

“Now, Anna-”  
 “Get out of my house!” she screeches, and they get up hurriedly and go, back out into the night. 

The others seem to share Gabe’s sentiment, that it’s too shameless to offer comfort for damage you’ve just inflicted, and once Anna is roused she won’t settle easily. They’ll leave her alone until tomorrow, which will be here soon enough. The eastern sky is already looking light, and one intrepid bird is singing a few preliminary notes. They lay down on the straw in the barn and close their eyes. Balt may even be asleep, Gabe isn’t entirely sure. 

After a while, though, he hears a rustling as Cas stands back up, then the sound of him taking his horse and leaving. Gabe has no idea where he thinks he’s going - maybe he just needs some air. For a minute he thinks of Cas’ graveyard preoccupation and hopes fervently that his remaining brother keeps hold of his sanity.

***************************

Dean wanted to follow the Miltons back, but he knew he wouldn’t be appreciated. Not even really by Cas, it seemed like. 

He has no idea what he’d do if it were him. If he could put himself in that position, maybe he’d know how to respond, but he can’t. He doesn’t even want to. He can’t relate, and he hopes to God he never will, and every time he tries to walk his mind up to it, to imagine, what if Sam were dead, he flinches and turns away again. So he’s not much use at any rate. Cas is alone.

But a few hours later, when the sound of Sam talking soothingly to Jess in the next room, comforting her over what is probably more pity for her friends and fear for her husband than tears for a boy she barely knew, dies down, he stares at his ceiling in the gray light of dawn and thinks, bullshit. Maybe Cas is alone in his head, but he doesn’t have to be in his body. Dean doesn’t have much to offer but at least he can be ready if he’s needed. He gets back out of bed.

It’s too early to disturb the Miltons, but he’d rather be out in the woods that sitting at home. He wanders for a while, letting his horse browse on the bushes at the side of the trail, listening to the birds tuning up for the day. The air is cool and clean, and for a moment he’s fiercely glad he’s alive to breathe it, and then in another he’s angry at himself for enjoying the morning when he should have his mind on somber things.

He drifts slowly down to the pond without thinking much about it, then pulls up short as he gets close. There’s a man sitting on the banks. It’s Cas.

His dark hair is matted down and his clothes are sticking to his back, and at first Dean thinks he must have been sitting out here when the dew fell on him, but that’s not it. He’s dripping, he’s been in the lake, and he doesn’t turn to look at all, even though he must hear footsteps approaching. That’s careless, and any other day, Dean would lay into him for it. Now, he just crouches carefully next to him.

“Cas?”

“Oh. It’s you.” Cas still has that look like he’s somewhere else, and Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and is startled at how cold he is.

“Jesus, Cas, you’re freezing! C’mon back with me and change clothes.” 

He’s jostling him, trying to pull him up, and maybe he should be more gentle but the guy is just asking to get sick out here and Dean’s better at manhandling anyway - but Cas isn’t helping him, and he seems heavier than usual. His pockets rattle strangely, and Dean reaches into one and pulls out a rock. What the... He keeps going, rock after rock in all his pockets, even the ones he’s sitting on, and oh shit. He’s got an idea he doesn’t like.

“Cas. What are these for?”

Cas just sighs. “I don’t want to talk about this, Dean.”

“Well too fucking bad, Cas, what’s with the rocks? Tell me!”

Cas shrugs. “Don’t worry. They didn’t work.”

Because that’s comforting, because Cas doesn’t carry several ways to bring about a quicker death on him every day.

Cas must read that on his face, because he says sharply, “I would never do that.”

“So what was this, then?!” He’s shouting, he shouldn’t be shouting, it’s not helping, but how dare he, how dare Cas fucking leave him, and he’s supposed to be satisfied with, oh, don’t worry, it didn’t take?

And this, Cas finally responds to. He fixes his eyes on Dean and he’s not sorry, just matter of fact.

“Yes, I wanted to die. Want to. But I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t make anyone bury me.”

Yesterday, Dean would have thought that was a stupid distinction. After last night, he can see why Cas thinks that’s an important choice.

“This way, you would never know - I would just be gone. You wouldn’t even know for sure that I was dead. You’d be angry, not grieving.”

“And that’s better,” and he’s thinking stop, stop being so harsh, but he can’t, how dare Cas, God damn him.

“Yes it is,” Cas snaps. “With my father, with Michael and Luke, there were people who were responsible, I could just - add it as fuel to the fire. I’ve been angry for so long. But now? I’m the one responsible. And I can’t live with that.” Suddenly a weird wobbly little laugh bubbles out of him, and Dean thinks, oh, Christ, he’s losing it. “Or I thought I couldn’t. I tried. I walked in, and I sunk -” and Dean’s chest seizes, no, he doesn’t want to hear this - “and for a while I held my breath. The light behind my eyes went from gray to red, then dark red, and it seemed like I could feel myself getting weaker... and warmer, fuzzier, like before you go to sleep.” Cas touches the faint scar at his throat, still eerily amused. “I recognized the feeling. I was almost there. Then it started going black and...” He sighs and shrugs. “I started swimming. It wasn’t easy anymore. I had to fight hard. It hadn’t hurt, before that, but then it burned, and I didn’t think I’d make it, but I kicked like hell - anyway. Obviously I made it.” He laughs again, and it still isn’t funny. “I don’t want to fight anymore. But I can’t stop, apparently.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dean says, because that’s really the only sensible thing he can say.

Cas ignores this. “I’ve done wrong. And I knew it, I did, but I just - didn’t care. I thought, because I wasn’t shot, I was getting away with it. But now I see that that is my punishment. I have to live with it. With the consequences.”

Maybe Dean should be more worried about the way he feels, but fuck it, he can fix that. He will fix it. He just wants to make sure he’ll have time to. He grips and twists Cas’ shirt too hard, but it’s better than doing it to his arm.

“Promise me you’ll never do that again. Nothing like it, either.”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m resigned to it, now.”

That’s not enough. “Swear it to me. Swear on your brother’s grave.”

Cas’ eyes widen at that, and Dean can’t really decide if it’s hurt or anger or surprise or something in between, but Cas sets his jaw, and Dean gets his promise.

“I swear.”

“Good. Okay.”

Now Dean has to figure out what to do next.


	25. Chapter 25

Gabe has been preparing for loss for a long time, but yet it surprises him. Somehow he thought that he would be the one leaving, be it through death or just his own cowardly flight. Instead, his remaining siblings are pulling away, the ties that bind them starting to fray, and if the center cannot hold, then there’s no hope for his own connection to them.

A few evenings a week, Balt stands on the porch steps and Anna stands in the doorway, and they talk. Neither of them ever steps forward to close the distance, and Gabe, lingering discreetly by the barn, is far enough away that he can’t hear what they discuss.

Cas doesn’t even attempt to approach. He stays hours away, with the Winchesters, in the woods near their house, or occasionally in Bobby’s spare room, if that’s where Dean Winchester is going to be. They’re rarely apart anymore, and Gabe doesn’t know where to start with the things that unsettle him about that.

Gabe can understand the need to get away, obviously. It wasn’t like Cas, before, to avoid his family, but perhaps the Milton blood is finally rising to the surface, perhaps it only needed sufficient guilt to turn him shifty too. Dean’s nursemaiding him, bullying him into eating and sleeping, and one part of Gabe is glad someone has taken it upon themselves to see that Cas doesn’t descend into the madness he seemed to hover over that night, but the other part thinks Cas should pull himself together, like the rest of them have. On their next raid, Cas is calm and controlled and as seemingly unaware of danger as he has ever been, and Gabe is satisfied.

Dean doesn’t stop bossing his little brother, though. Cas can’t even walk away from a table or a campfire for too long before Dean starts to glance around anxiously for him, and Gabe wonders what that means, in the dark strange mind of Bloody Bill’s most fervent disciple. It’s heartening to notice that it irritates Cas too, though. He snaps at Dean often, and though it never drives him off, it keeps him at a distance. 

At the same time, Cas never leaves the Winchesters’ county except to raid, never deliberately chooses to camp elsewhere. Perhaps that’s tact, or perhaps Dean is not as strangely smothering as Gabe perceives it after all - he’s not around them all the time, after all, making his pilgrimages back home with Balt - but Cas is a grown man, well able to decide for himself where he wants to make camp for the night. Gabe doesn’t think he needs to interfere at the moment. But he’s keeping his eyes open.

***************************

Dean brings Cas back and has him dry and calm at the kitchen table by the time Sam and Jess are awake. No one talks much that morning. They’re all foggy with lack of sleep, and besides, there’s nothing useful to say. Jess does the chores like always, because they aren’t going to do themselves, and Sam mostly reads and writes quietly, off in his own little world. Dean can tell from the set of his jaw he’s angry about Alfie. It’s probably going into some new argument for his cause, but he has the tact not to say it out loud. Cas accepts coffee and then sits in the sunlight in their threshold for several hours without doing or saying anything, and Dean just sort of sits there with him, in a daze, thinking about nothing.

Eventually Cas announces he’s going to sleep after all. They let him find his own way back to the bedroom. He spent enough time there, healing up from his last big wound, that he doesn’t feel much like a guest anymore. Dean starts to follow, but Sam raises his eyebrows and he hangs around for a minute, until he hears the bedroom door close.

“How is he?”

Dean shakes his head and said, “I don’t know. Not good. He’s not quite right in the head.” Sam looks concerned, and he adds, “Don’t worry. I’ll fix him up,” with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

Then he goes after Cas to the bedroom they’ve shared pretty often, lately. He’s been getting kind of a thrill out of that, thinking about how he could say “our bedroom”, in his head at least. There’s nothing like that kind of happiness there today, but still, he can’t deny it, he doesn’t feel bad. He’s still thinking about things like the sunlight through the cloudy windowpanes or the fact that Cas is laying there, maybe miserable but warm and breathing, and he’s so glad to be alive and have this that he feels wrong about it. Apparently, Dean can’t muster up even half a day’s worth of misery for Alfie, but he’s known for a long time he’s a selfish, callous man, and it doesn’t bother him as much as it maybe should. He keeps it to himself, but inside he savors every little detail.

Cas has not chosen the bed Dean attempted to sleep in. He’s taken the untouched one, and he’s sprawled facedown across it in his clothes. At least he took the time to kick off his boots. Dean knows right away he’s not asleep, though. The lines of his arms and back are too stiff for that. 

When he gets close, he can hear Cas’ deliberately slow breathing, the kind he does while waiting for a train to crash. He thinks about saying something, but what? In the end, he does something selfish instead. He takes off his own boots and lays down too, squirming and elbowing until Cas shifts to make room for him. It’s a narrow bed, made to fit the boys he and Sam used to be when they shared this room. He throws an arm over Cas to brush the wall with his fingers, putting the right half of his chest and shoulder over Cas’ left. Cas doesn’t respond in any way, but he doesn’t push him off either. Dean counts it as a win. He can still smell lake water in Cas’ hair, but he can also soak up the warmth of his back, and secretly, he’s not sad, he’s not even that angry anymore, he’s just thankful.

It gets old. Days go by and Cas is still indifferent, not just to Dean, but to everything. To life, and Dean’ll be damned if he allows that to happen. If Cas can’t be trusted to take care of himself then Dean will do it. The motherfucker will keep breathing if Dean has to force the air into his lungs. And yeah, the anger’s sure as hell back. Dean keeps that to himself, though. There’s enough to deal with without him adding his own feelings to the mix.

Gabe and Balt keep going back to visit Anna, but Cas never comes along. He spends every night with Dean, and every night Dean curls into his silent back and tries to will his fighting spirit through his chest and soak it into Cas, because he can’t think of any other way to help. He’s not good at this.

Eventually Cas starts to speak more often. Mostly it’s to tell Dean to leave him alone. He shrugs Dean’s hand off his shoulder, scowls at him when Dean offers him breakfast. It hurts, but it doesn’t drive him off. Sorry, Dean thinks grimly. You wanted me, now you’re fucking stuck with me. He keeps coming back to Cas, night after night, and curling up around him, even if he gets an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

But then one night Cas reaches out and pulls Dean’s arm tighter around him, and he whispers, “I’m sorry.” It’s been long enough that it’s a shock, and Dean doesn’t immediately respond. Cas adds, “Thank you,” and Dean hugs him so hard he worries he might re-crack his ribs. He wants to do more, turn Cas over and kiss his forehead and cheeks and tell him a thousand sweet things and maybe also punch him and tell him what an asshole he is - but that’s too much too soon, he knows. He just keeps his arm tight around him, and Cas folds his across it and goes to sleep. Dean stays awake for a while, though, blinking away prickling tears of relief and God knows what else.


	26. Chapter 26

When Gabe was seventeen, death seemed preferable to being the head of a household. He could have held on to his non-combatant status just a little longer, trading on his youth, on the vagueness of the definition of the front in 1861, and tried to preserve more of his family’s business. But he saw the wave that was about to crash over his head, swamping the distinction between civilian and soldier, carrying off everything his family held to be theirs, including possibly their lives - and he dove in, and headed out to fight. It looked a little like bravery, but the truth is, allowing himself to be swept away was easier than fighting the undertow.

Gabe is thirty-one. He’s built houses and he’s burnt them, and though he’s not bad with an axe and a hammer, he knows from experience he’s much better with a torch and a gun. But he forgot what his seventeen-year-old self knew, which is that you can’t build with the tools of destruction. As a teenager, he left responsibility behind for adventure, but he knew he was mortgaging his life in the trade. He didn’t die, though, and then he continued not to die, surviving on and on and leaping from one outrageous success to the next, and somewhere along the line he reclaimed his life, building up a rough little structure of expectations like a settler’s cabin. What happened to Alfie reminded him that he’s just squatting on fate’s claim.

Things have changed. It’s in the way the gang speaks to each other, in the way other people respond to them too. It’s in the very air, like there are too many detectives poisoning it with their breath. Gabe thinks he can feel the tug of another wave coming. He hopes he can dive through it as successfully as he did the last time - he hopes they all can, and after all, each of them has already cheated death a time or two - but he’s been reminded that he might be crushed and drowned, and he needs to be prepared for that eventuality too.

They’re sitting around the table at Bobby’s one night, playing cards, the Winchesters and the remaining Miltons, when there’s a sharp rap at his door. Bobby glances up with a scowl.

“I ain’t expecting anyone.”

Everyone lays down their cards in favor of having a weapon in hand. Bobby takes a pistol with him, and shuts the door to their room firmly behind him before opening to the stranger. Only a phrase or two drifts through to them.

“No, I ain’t seen ‘em...” 

Of course not, Bobby hasn’t officially seen them in years, but his tone’s friendly, not defensive, like he knows this person knows better and he doesn’t really mind.

“What?”

Everyone tenses at his angry, shocked response, but then Bobby drops his voice to a murmur, and they hear nothing else that’s said. There’s the slam and rattle of his front door locking - and then a pause. Bobby is standing around in his own hallway, God only knows why. Gabe’s tired of waiting to find out, though, and so he scrapes his chair back to go talk to the old man, and maybe that’s the noise that shifts Bobby back into action, because the door opens a moment later.

He steps right around Gabe and drops back into his chair. Gabe can’t read his expression - it’s pinched, angry, upset, but that seems to be the crotchety old bastard’s default expression. The Winchesters see something there, though, and it doesn’t ease their minds.

“What is it,” Dean demands.

“Pinkertons came round y’all’s place.” He swallows for a minute, and it’s quiet, and all of them together buy themselves a minute more of ignorance. “They firebombed the place. Jess is dead.”

Everyone’s heads turn to Sam, whose expression reminds Gabe of nothing more than the first time he killed a squirrel as a child. He shot it with his first gun, when he was around thirteen, and he ran to collect it, proud of himself. It was strange, to feel soft fur matted with blood, to be so close to something he normally saw only in glimpses, still bright and healthy and fascinating - and dead and destroyed by his hand. The wonderful natural world come crashing together with the power at his command, with a little whisper that sounded like the preacher at the back of his mind reminding him that everything meets this fate - it was disgusting, amazing and horrifying, all at once. He’d been to funerals, but he’d never quite understood them before, never figured out that they’re a fancy layer of formality people use to veil a force bigger than them all. That was Gabe’s first glimpse of eternity. But then Luke whistled and told him he was a damn good shot, and he grinned and tossed off an answer and ran on.

How is it possible that Sam Winchester never understood that before now? Of all people, even among their own gang, Sam should be one of the best placed to know the nature of death. And yet he’s staring at the table like Gabe stared at that squirrel, horror, disgust, awe, and fear mixed together like he just figured out eternity is real.

Bobby clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Sam just bows his head lower, props it up on his hands on the table like Gabe’s seen him do falling asleep over books. Bobby gives him that for a minute, and addresses Dean instead.

“The Harvelles were visiting. To keep her company, you know...”

Harvelle’s is open every day of the week, but a long time ago Ellen declared that God rested on the Sabbath and so will she. Sam’s not home that often, and Jess is - was - alone for long stretches of time. They go and visit with her on Sunday evenings.

“Ellen’ll be alright. She’s the one that went for help. Jo... It doesn’t look good.”

Dean shakes his head. “Damn.”

“Why?” Cas’ voice is little more than a growl. “They had to see we weren’t there-”

“Because they’re fucking scum, Cas,” Sam says, bringing up his head suddenly. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts. He cocks his pistol, and everyone freezes.

Then he stands and heads for the door, and Dean is right behind him.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to kill them.”

“Who? Where you gonna find ‘em?” Bobby demands.

Sam shrugs. “I’ll find ‘em.”

Dean grabs his shoulder, gets shrugged off, and steps around to put his whole body in between Sam and the door.

“Sam, wait. We’ll kill ‘em. We will kill those sons of bitches. But you’re gonna get yourself shot if you head out like this.”

Gabe hurries to help him. “Or you’ll get arrested before you even find them. Can’t shoot anyone from jail, Sam.”

The logic fights its way through to him, and he stops pushing against his brother. Behind him, Cas quietly slips the gun out of Sam’s hand.

Bobby rises to his feet, slow and heavy on his bad leg, and says, “I’ll go get more whiskey.”

*******************************

When Bobby gets back, Sam grabs one of the full bottles and goes to bed. No one stops him. Gabe heads out, supposedly because he has to go tell Balt and Anna, but really because when things get dark, Gabe always finds a way to disappear. Bobby sticks around for a while for form’s sake, but there’s no conversation to be made, and when it gets too quiet for him, takes the rest of another bottle and leaves for his own room. 

Dean can hold his liquor, but Cas can drink him under the table, and right now, he’s not sure who’s matching who’s shots. Who cares. But it’s late. He rubs his spinning head.

“We better sleep. Gotta lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Even Dean knows they’ll probably never find those Pinkertons. He’s not ready to admit it, though, and Cas doesn’t call him on it. He just nods. Neither of them gets up.

Dean’s not Gabe. He doesn’t cut and run. But the thought of going up to the room where Sam is in God-knows-what state makes him wish he could.

“You need to stay with Sam,” Cas says, back to his old mind-reading self. “Even if he doesn’t appreciate it... it helps.”

“I don’t know if I can do it again,” Dean says. “Watch that.” For himself he doesn’t care if he hurts, but watching someone he loves struggle like that? No. He can’t.

For a minute they’re quiet again, and then Cas gives him the answer he already knows. “You have to. No one else can.” He stands, and offers a hand to Dean to pull him up. 

Dean shakes his head like he’s denying it, but it’s bullshit. He’d be there for Sam if he had to beat down the door to do it, but Christ, this is hard. Life is hard. Fuck.

Cas tugs him to his feet, and the momentum carries right into Cas’ chest. He’s probably drunk. Cas puts an arm around his back, and it does what the whiskey couldn’t. Why can’t this happen more often? No wonder Sam is so touchy with Jess - oh. Fuck. There’s a wet spot in Cas’ hair. It might be a tear. Dean’s face is wet. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and tries to pull back, but Cas hangs on. 

“It’s okay.”

Which it ain’t, but okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Whew. Life is kicking my ass. But the rent is paid!  
> 2- The whole bomb thing is, as usual, true. Pinkerton detectives threw a bomb through the window of the James house which killed their 11-year-old brother and blew off their mom's arm. Yikes. At the time, Allan Pinkerton claimed this was a mistake, but he had a personal grudge against the gang for eluding him so long, and apparently there's a letter of his in the Library of Congress where he says he plans to burn the house down.


	27. Chapter 27

The Miltons have become known for their detachment, what one admiring editor once poetically described as their “battle calm”. He praised it as courage, which let Gabe know that he had never been a soldier. Courage implies fear, and for Gabe at least, there’s nothing particularly frightening about death, because if it comes, he will lose nothing. He won’t be around to care. It’s only those who are left behind that lose.

As the stories and ballads would have it, the Winchesters are the Miltons’ complete opposites, the better to set each other off - hot-headed charmers, brawling womanizing giants in contrast to the slight, refined Miltons. That same star-struck editor floated the theory that this was the source of their success, the contrasting strengths working together, “Apollonian and Dionysian”, as he would have it.

Gabe snickers again, just thinking about that. One night with the Miltons could show him who’s Dionysian. Next to him, Balt upends a bottle of whiskey, swallowing the last of it. Gabe elbows him in irritation.

“Asshole. I wanted some more of that.”

Balt shrugs and falls back onto his elbows, nodding across the campfire. “Ask your brother’s... dearest... friend...” he slurs sarcastically, eyes narrowed in something Gabe can’t positively identify as either amusement or derision.

Dean and Cas are sitting on a fallen log, a more comfortable seat than the ground but almost out of reach of the light of the fire. It’s really too small for the two of them, and they’re pressed together from shoulder to knee, long legs folded up awkwardly. The bottle they’re sharing is almost full, dangled carelessly by the neck in Dean’s hands. They’ve been quiet all evening - for Cas nothing new, and Dean is still subdued by his brother’s recent loss - but they don’t appear to be brooding, or even talking quietly between themselves. They’re just watching, listening to Benny tell a story, then turning to listen to Garth’s response, smiling a little when it’s called for, but never making a sound. As Gabe watches Dean glances quickly to his left at his brother, side-eyed so Sam doesn’t catch him at it. Cas doesn’t turn his head to look, that would be too obvious, and for a minute Gabe almost has to laugh. Clever little brother. Cas waits several moments, until Dean has turned his gaze back to the fire, and then he in turn looks at Dean, and apparently reads a great deal from his face. One of his hands moves to squeeze and hold at Dean’s shoulder, the other stretches between his knees to retrieve the whiskey. He takes a small sip, then passes it back to Dean, who imitates him without bothering to wipe the neck first. They resume their old postures without saying anything to each other.

Gabe becomes aware that his heart is racing for reasons unknown. This is the prickling heat of being caught out in a lie, or of having a pretty girl laugh him off, but he doesn’t know why he’s feeling it. He doesn’t.

He slides his eyes to right to take a secret look at Sam himself. He looks serene, staring into the fire as if reading the secrets of the universe in its flames, but Gabe suspects Sam’s calm is balanced on a hair trigger. Sam accepted the requisite condolences as a formality that had to be got through, and then he threw himself twice as hard into his planning. With the probable exception of Dean, the others haven’t noticed much of a change in him, because the others don’t sit over maps and newspapers, figuring out who and where to strike next. Normally, Gabe and Sam are a back-and-forth balancing act, Sam putting forward carefully crafted political statements, Gabe going for easy, splashy profit, and most of their final robberies falling somewhere in between. In the weeks since his wife’s death, however, Sam’s stopped arguing with any of Gabe’s choices. If anything, he’s pushing for bigger targets, more challenging to take, with more devastating losses for the banks if they succeed. Sam’s rationale has always had an undercurrent of revenge to it, but this is no longer symbolic score-settling with his old local enemies. Sam wants to bankrupt whole towns.

How wrong that editor was, Gabe thinks again, watching Sam, still probably completely sober, refuse a drink from Adam. There’s precious little of the Dionysian anarchy in Sam. He was the most domestic of them all, which of course meant he was the one with the largest, softest weak spot. Besides - Gabe notices Balt is now flat on his back, shoves him to check that he’s conscious, and gets a dismissive hand waved at him in response - orgies sound more like a Milton kind of thing.

*******************************

If you asked him what’s been said this evening, Dean couldn’t tell you a thing. He’d laugh and play it off as the drink, but the truth is, he’s barely touched it. He doesn’t want to dull the pain tonight.

It hurts, watching Sam, wondering where the hell he’s gone these days. More than once Dean’s wished again that Sam was still a boy. It was easier to patch him up when it was just pulling a thorn out of his foot and telling him to stop being a baby. This is beyond Dean, and he knows that and he’s sure Sam knows that, but he can’t help but feel a little like he’s letting the kid down. He shouldn’t be able to fix it, he knows - but still. He should.

Everything hurts a little, these days, a little sharper and clearer, maybe since Jess, maybe since Alfie. Everybody’s jokes are harsher, laughs louder, he swears they even take bigger bites when they eat - like they’re getting it while they can. He can feel himself do it too, wolf down dinner and at the same time pay more attention to the taste than he ever has, and he doesn’t know quite know why that is. Everything’s hitting him a little harder than it used to, and it seems right to feel the sting.

And he loves these guys, but Christ what he wouldn’t give to be alone. Well, alone with Cas, because for all the other kinds of indulgence around him all the time, that’s the one he never gets enough of. He catches himself thinking strange things, bargaining with some imaginary guard in his head: “Well if I can’t touch his skin, can I touch his shirt? Just let me touch his shirt.” What the hell is that? It’s not fading over time, either, it’s spreading, getting stronger. It’s just another kind of ache he’s never felt before, and sometimes he worries this is serious, maybe the first stage of a brain fever. At the moment, though, he doesn’t care. He has a good reason to be crushed up against Cas, and though he pretends to smile at whatever the hell Garth is saying, all his actual attention is focused along his right side.

Dean is going to sleep next to Cas tonight. With everyone around, out in the open, with a decent gap between them, because he’s not quite that insane yet. Still, he gets that much, and if the fire burns low enough and they manage to stay awake past everyone else, maybe - well, maybe he is that crazy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today the notes are not only rambly, they have an oddly Germanic tinge...
> 
> 1-The whole Dionysian and Apollonian thing: there's this idea of two kinds of art, the eternal, harmonious and deliberate vs. the chaotic explosion of dangerous life. Apollonian would be like, Handel, while Dionysian would be like, Iggy Pop. (According to Iggy Pop himself, actually.) Nietzsche famously wrote about it in 1872 but it was around earlier, and if you were a sufficiently educated person, you'd probably have heard about this sort of division. The culture at the time really was pretty heavy on its classical references. Still, this is an absolutely ridiculous idea to be applying to bank robbers. The editor is gushing hardcore.
> 
> 2-Sam wants to bankrupt whole towns... Since 1933, we have Federal Deposit Insurance. If the bank is robbed, the federal government will replace the depositors' money. Therefore, there's absolutely no reason to resist a bank robbery as a private person. Back then, if it was gone, it was gone. If Sam cleans out the bank, everyone in town who had savings has just been wiped out, and without any kind of social security and no promise of a good harvest next year, you can get very hungry very quickly. All of a sudden fighting back looks like a good option.
> 
> 3-"Brain fever" is just kind of a generalized catchall for anything that makes you delirious. Not a real disease.
> 
> 4-Although the plot is in no way related, I recognize some of the themes in this chapter (Dionysian/Apollonian and the feverishness) as drawn from Thomas Mann's "Death in Venice", so I figure, credit where it's due. (Basically, Mann fell in love with an actual boy he met there, and then wrote a super dark but lovely novella about it. If you're into spooky romantic madness, I recommend it. Just don't expect a happy ending.)


	28. Chapter 28

Gabe’s head is pounding hard this morning, and his mouth is dry and tastes foul. He cracks an eyelid open to peer at the offending sunshine, painful even filtered through the green leaves overhead, then closes them again and attempts to fumble for his flask blind.

Footsteps crunch over to him, and then Sam’s voice is low and just the slightest bit amused. “You want some water?”

“Hell yes.”

He sits up with painstaking care, trying not to jostle himself, and cracks his eyes open again. Sam’s crouched in front of him, offering what looks like a bottle of whiskey. Gabe’s face must show his confusion, because Sam jerks a thumb in the direction of the nearby creek.

“Filled the empties up with water. Figured you boys’d want it.”

Gabe smiles carefully, taking the bottle. “Thanks kiddo.”

Sam doesn’t return the smile. “The sooner you’re back up, the better. It was a damn fool thing to do, getting drunk out here.”

And alright, clever it wasn’t, Gabe can admit that. They certainly weren’t on their guard last night. But they’re nearly two weeks’ ride from Kansas City, out in the middle of nowhere in Minnesota, and who exactly does Sam think is going to stumble across them? No one knows their faces this far away, and if anyone were to ask they could be land speculators, or livestock dealers, or whatever other lie came to Gabe in the moment. It’s not a crime to spend a night getting drunk around a campfire. They can afford to take it easy for a moment, while things in Missouri cool off.

Of course, this isn’t just some pleasure jaunt. They’re always on the lookout for, well, call them business opportunities. By the way Sam settles down next to him, newspaper creased at a particular article, he’s found one.

“You see this?”

“You know I haven’t.” Garth picked it up in town just yesterday, along with the whiskey, and Gabe has his priorities. Sam left it alone then too, but this morning he appears to have read it straight through. “You sleep at all?”

Sam squares his shoulders and says, “Not much,” like he’s daring Gabe to make something of it. No thank you, sir, Gabe thinks, you picked the wrong man if it’s a fight you want this morning. That’s what your brother is here for, speaking of which - he glances around the camp. All the still forms are a little eerie, a little too close to the way they’d look laid out for burial. Yet another reason not to be an early riser, Gabe thinks sourly, and observes that Dean and Cas are laying where they sat last night, far to the edge of camp by that log. There’s just enough space that he could lay an arm lengthwise between them; they must be breathing in each other’s faces, and he’s not sure how anyone could go to sleep that way. Drunk, he decides, and turns his attention back to Sam and the newspaper.

“So what did you find?”

“There’s only one bank in town, and it just got a new safe, new vault door, new everything.”

“Not really a problem when you have the cashier open it.”

“Exactly. But they must think there’s something there worth protecting.”

Gabe nods thoughtfully. “How near is it?”

“Not far at all.”

“Well then let’s send the boys there tomorrow to look around.”

Sam scowls. “Why not today?”

******************************

Dean plucks irritably at his shirt. It’s early, but hot already, and yesterday’s plunge in the creek didn’t do much to cut the smell of sweat and dirt from too long on the road. Maybe this afternoon he’ll find another creek, or at least somewhere shaded to lie under the trees. Just got to get this robbery out of the way first.

On his left, Benny’s whistling “When Johnny Comes Marching,” absentmindedly drawing the notes out into something half marching song, half funeral hymn. It’s a creepy habit, but Dean’s come to like it. It lets him know the man’s there, and his calm is catching. Ahead of him, the set of Sam’s shoulders tells Dean he’s eager to get to town. The way he’s settled into his seat says he knows he’s got to bide his time. Nothing out of the ordinary there. To his right, Cas rides close, maybe to keep away from the ditch at the side of the road. Probably not, though, and he thinks, can’t keep away from me, huh, and ducks his head a little to hide a private grin.

It happens every time. The town gets closer and his breathing picks up a little, and so does their pace. Here comes the fun. 

They head down a dirt street dotted with clapboard buildings until they reach a bridge, broad wooden planks spread over a tall, arched iron frame, a little like half a giant’s wagon wheel stuck in a rut. The river’s small but the banks are steep, and sloping down a little below them on the other side is the center of town. Brick buildings, fine large glass windows in two tall stories - they’re set up pretty well in Northfield.

They all pull up together for a minute in the dirt before the bridge. A few townsfolk glance their way, but with any luck, they’ll be gone before anyone can think much of it. Dean, Sam and Benny will head down to the bank first. When they’re safely inside, Gabe and Balt will ride down to hang around and keep watch. Cas, Adam and Garth will linger here by the bridge. There’s no need to discuss, they all know their parts. They pause just long enough to take a look, see the place is quiet, and then kick their horses to go. Dean turns to Cas and gives him a grin and private wink, and gets an answering nod and smile. Then he turns his mind to business.

Sam’s height draws a few glances on the street. It always does. They tie their horses up outside the bank, calm and easy like they’ve got all the time in the world. Their hands are loose and ready at their sides. Then they step out of the glare of the sun and into the bank.

Their hands come up already armed, Sam’s roaring, “Hands up! If you yell I’ll blow your goddamned brains out!”, they’re blinking to adjust to the change in the light. Three men, two to the left, one to the right, behind a high dark wood counter - Benny goes left, Sam leans over the top, and Dean jumps right up onto it. His boots crunch across papers as he stands over the man to the right, then jumps down in front of him.

“You the cashier?”

The man might be Dean’s age, might be a bit older. He’s skinny, cuffs of his shirtsleeves falling away from thin wrists where he holds up his hands, and not as tall as Dean, either - Dean probably wouldn’t even need the pistol to dominate him. He’s a cool one, though, just narrows his eyes and says, “No.”

Behind him, he hears Sam and Benny demand the same question, get the same answer. Alright, someone’s lying, and Dean doesn’t have time for that. They need the cashier to open the safe. He presses his pistol to the man’s temple.

“Well then where is he?”

“He’s not in.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s not,” the others chorus, and this is really starting to piss him off. 

“Search ‘em,” Sam suggests, and Dean shoves his man against the wall, plants his pistol in his chest, and starts emptying his pockets with his left hand. It’s clumsy work, though, and he can feel his blood starting to pound in his ears. They need to hurry this up. A watch, a scrap of paper - he tosses this useless shit on the ground. 

Sam’s impatient, shaking his own man by the scruff of the neck, still demanding, “Where’s the cashier?” They cringe and they whine but nobody knows, nobody’s saying, and they need to get moving, goddammit.

“Get the money outside the safe, then,” he prompts, and Benny shoves his man forward. He points to a box and Benny starts clearing it out.

“Open the vault door,” Sam demands. Dean’s man is closest, and he pushes him forward and at the same time steps back to cover the others while Benny keeps working. The skinny man swings the door open and steps aside, putting his back against the wall. Sam steps into the vault, looking around.

Suddenly the skinny man darts forward, shoving at the vault door to try and trap Sam inside. Dean jerks forward with a yell, but Sam’s already reacted too, and the heavy metal door slams on his outstretched right arm, and as Dean turns away to help one of the others he was covering bolts for the back door. Benny spins and shoots, misses, the man is out the door and they can hear him yelling for help. God fucking dammit. Dean takes another step forward, slashes his arm down, brings the full weight of the butt of his pistol against the skinny bastard’s head, and he only really knows he made contact because he sees the man crumple. He can’t feel the impact now, lit up with fury, and he spares just enough time to glance back at Sam.

“You alright?” He’s shaking his arm out, rubbing at his wrist and rolling it around to show it works.

“Yeah, nothing broken,” he says, and he looks like Dean feels. Benny’s back to covering his man, what little money they’ve got in his other hand, calm but grim, and outside, Dean hears a gunshot. Shit shit shit.

The skinny bastard’s still awake at his feet, blinking like he’s dazed, and Dean almost throws himself on him, puts a knee in his chest and his knife at his throat. “Open the goddamned safe or I’ll slit your throat,” he snarls.

He blinks and sucks in a breath, holding very still, and just says, “I can’t. There’s a time lock on it, I can’t.”

He’s hearing more shots now, they’re trading regular shots back and forth out there, and he hears Gabe shout, “Come out, boys, we’ve gotta go!”

“God damn it,” he swears and slams the bastard back against the floor, lays his knife tight enough against his neck to see the blood start to well up, and he can see the cut coming, he can feel the hot spray of this man’s blood already - but his hand jerks away instead of across his throat, why he doesn’t know, and he pushes himself back to his feet.

“Let’s go,” Sam shouts over the noise from outside, and takes over holding off Benny’s man, nodding to him to go first. They hear a cry of pain from outside, and shit, yeah, they need to be gone. Benny gets a firm grip on their pitiful bag of money, sets his mouth in a firm, sour line, cracks the door to peer out for a minute, and then sprints out into the street. 

Dean checks to make sure Sam’s got an eye on the skinny bastard on the ground, too, before he steps away and jumps back over the counter, scattering more papers as he goes. As he leaps down Dean can see the street through the door, and there’s a man lying on his back in front of it, face covered in blood so you can’t even recognize it, but the body he’d know anywhere. It’s Adam.

He spins back to his other brother, trains his pistol on the standing bank man, and calls, “Come on, Sam!”

It’s nothing for him to hop the counter, but then he freezes for a minute, and Dean’s eyes flick from the bank man to his brother, knowing what he just noticed. Sam’s eyes are locked on the patch of street where Adam is bloodied and still, but if he feels anything about it Dean can’t tell. Sam’s face is a total blank. “Come on, we have to go,” Dean urges him, but instead Sam turns back to look at the men behind the counter.

Unbelievably, the skinny bastard has struggled to his feet, leaning hunched with his hands on the counter. Sam doesn’t say a word, just takes one long stride back, puts his pistol against the man’s head, and fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Benny's whistling a tune that was popular on both sides during the Civil War. The British or Irish might know it as "Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye" - same tune, more optimistic lyrics.
> 
> 2- The James-Younger gang made a disastrous raid on Northfield, MN in 1876. This is basically the same raid with fictional people, but obviously I reserved the right to change details for my own purposes.
> 
> 3- "The skinny bastard" is heavily based on Joseph Heywood, a real person, and obviously I am calling him that from Dean's point of view, not as a sign of actual disrespect on my part. He did in fact attempt to trap one of the robbers in the vault, did tell them that he couldn't open the safe with a knife at his throat, and was shot as they left. The thing is - he was lying to them with a gun in his face. He was the cashier. And he didn't need to open the safe - it was unlocked. None of the robbers ever tried to open the door, which meant they never got to all of Northfield's money inside it.


	29. Interlude 2

This time, when we reached the turning to my house, I said so. I hardly dared interrupt the story, afraid it’d distract them from returning to it, but on the other hand, I certainly didn’t dare to fool them again.

They had reached the edge of Northfield, in memory, by the time we reached my front door. I could see the dim shadows of my parents moving behind the curtains, backlit against the gas lamps. There were more burning than usual - my mother’s doing, I was sure. She’d have been anxious. But no one opened the door, and I knew my father was seething behind it. He was going to make me knock. And I still hadn’t heard the part of the story I’d been holding my breath for all this time.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. My father was a good man. He was a hard worker, and a hard thinker, too. He kept his hands and his mind busy all the time, and whatever he did, you could be certain he’d considered it beforehand, and carefully chosen the right course. He didn’t make any promise he couldn’t keep, and he never broke one he made. If you could only have one word to describe him, that word would have to be good.

I was not a particularly good boy. Not that I was a liar, or a thief, or that worst of all boyhood sinners, a tell-tale - but when I woke up in the morning I made my plans for the day without much thought to what the adult world might have to say about them, and once I’d made up my mind, I sorely hated to change it. I had a temper, too, which flared up every time someone opposed me when I knew I was right. And wouldn’t you know it, I was just about always right. Or so I thought.

I’ve got the sneaking suspicion my father wasn’t much different than me, underneath. Some people are naturally good, but my father wasn’t one of them. He was just too stubborn to go bad. And he wasn’t about to let me slip, either.

Well, I sat out there in that carriage and I didn’t relish the fight I had coming to me. I guess I figured I might as well go for broke.

“Come in and finish the story,” I offered.

One raised an eyebrow, the other laughed. “Your daddy gonna let us in?”

“You drove me out here... And it’s late, and cold... We’ve gotta give you coffee or something. ‘S only polite.”

They were agreed at a glance. “Alright, what the hell.”

The taller one climbed out. I could see him holding one of the horses’ bridles, stroking it while he muttered to the driver. So I hopped out myself, and held still while the shorter braced himself on my shoulder and awkwardly made his way down to the ground. He glanced at the lighted windows, and a calculating smile moved across his face and disappeared again. He stripped off his coat and threw it around my shoulders, but though the warmth was a relief, I’d hardly need it now, mere steps from my front door. I opened my mouth to protest - and then I caught on. He winked, and we made our way to my house.

And you know, I think in the end, it was the coat that won my parents over. My mother was happy to have me back, but I was a strong young boy, not a baby that might fall in the creek and drown. They knew pretty much where I was and that I was quite capable of getting back, and I don’t think they would even have been surprised if I’d just decided to spend the night with a friend in town. She’d feel better with me in the house, but she was far from frantic. And whatever hospitality my father might have felt obligated to offer was fairly well wiped out by the names of his callers, but their reputation was enough to give my mother pause too. I think she would have gone along with my father if she hadn’t seen me wearing an outlaw’s coat. Clearly they couldn’t be as bad as all that, if they were taking such care of her boy. 

Oh yes, their bodies might have been the worse for the wear, but they were as crafty as ever. I tell you, it worried me a bit. I started to think all sorts of frightening things, like the distance of our house from any of our neighbors, or the fact that they were both armed, or how my father didn’t like to keep his money in the bank. A bit late to be realizing these things, of course. All of a sudden it was comforting to see that my father was on his guard.

Of course, they saw that too. My mother collected the coats, but when the taller one handed his over, there was a pistol laying on top of it. She jerked her hand back like it might burn her, but he smiled.

“Some folks hear my name and get uneasy, but I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. I’ve had my fill of that. You mind keepin’ that for me, ma’am?”

She smiled at that, and nodded. “Of course.”

Then he glanced over at his friend, who just glared back for a moment before finally handing his gun over. I don’t know about my father, but I know I breathed easier. 

My mother went to cook some coffee, and the rest of us sat down. They stretched their legs out, making themselves at home. I could see how my father’s jaw tightened up at that, and it made me feel good and satisfied. So long as we weren’t going to be robbed, this was well worth the trouble.

“They were telling me stories on the ride,” I told him, hoping to prompt them. “They were just about to Northfield.”

“Damn good people in Northfield,” my father said.

The taller one smiled tightly. “I wish they’d been a little less good.”

“But even you’ve got to hand it to them. The big, bad outlaws rode into town,” he answered, dragging out the words mockingly, “and they got more than they bargained for. The sheep came after the wolves. What are the odds of that happening?”

“A bit better when the wolves are firing their shots into the air,” the shorter one snaps.

My father leaned forward eagerly, like he did when he caught me disobeying. “So what happened to that cashier, did he trip and shoot himself?”

“No, he didn’t. But most of us didn’t aim to kill, and that’s a fact.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“Listen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't update for a while. My grandma died and I just wasn't up to it. I'm going to try to get back on track.


	30. Chapter 30

The ride to Northfield is uneventful. Benny’s whistling as usual, an annoying tuneless thing Gabe tries to block out. His stomach still feels a little sour, and he thinks ruefully that he isn’t twenty anymore. It might be time to lay off a little on the drink.

At the bridge, Benny and the Winchesters ride ahead. The worst moment, for Gabe, is the space between the start of their job and the start of his own. He’s eager to move away from the cluster at the bridge, knowing that more men always attract more attention. In fact, they’ve drawn glances already. Gabe takes out his pocket watch and pretends to be checking the time.

From his vantage point, he watches the three tie up their horses and saunter into the bank. A few heads turn on the street, but that can be attributed to Sam’s height and their unfamiliar faces. Things are going smoothly. Gabe shuts up his watch, nods at Balt, and they ride down in turn.

They tie up their horses two buildings down, at the crossing where the street just begins to widen. They’ve got the length of the center of town spread in front of them. Ahead are the doors of the bank, and across the river, they can still see the forms of the other three. Gabe takes a few leisurely steps down the road and glances down through the glass into the display of a storefront. Balt stands still for a minute, absently tapping his matches against his hand with a rattling sound. It’s a favorite trick of his, a man stepped out for a smoke, his eyes seemingly focused on nothing but noting every movement in his field of vision.

A man crosses the street in front of them, his head turning to watch them as he passes. Gabe recognizes him; he’s just come across the bridge. He doesn’t like that, but the others should be out any minute now.

They aren’t. A face pops up in the window of a building across the street, then quickly disappears again. Down the street, someone walks briskly between two of the buildings, with a purpose. Balt comes up to his elbow and points at something in the store’s window as if they’re considering it, muttering in his ear, “Well?”

Gabe shakes his head. “Not yet.” Once they raise the alarm, there’s no going back. As long as shots haven’t been fired, it’s best to keep their cool. But damn it, Gabe thinks grimly, what’s taking so long?

He glances up towards the bridge again. The others are still mounted, ready to ride down if they’re needed. They’re not particularly subtle, now staring fixedly at Gabe and Balt for a signal, and Gabe curses inwardly again. That isn’t going to help them avoid attention. Not that they’ve been successful so far. Quietly but quickly, the street traffic is thinning. Gabe takes a few slow steps back toward the horses, trying without much success to look casual. Balt follows.

Suddenly there’s a shot from inside the bank, and at almost the same time a yell from a side street - “Help! Robbers! They’re robbing the bank!” Gabe and Balt lunge for their horses.

Back in the saddle, Gabe and Balt shoot into the air, which sends the last few pedestrians running and screaming - but more shots answer him, thudding into the street too close for comfort, and he sees a head duck out of the way in a building across the street. This is bad. He shoots again, deliberately breaking out a window this time, but it doesn’t scare them off. Instead, another shot rings out, from a roof this time, and then another from a window, picking up in speed and intensity like the first few drops of a rainstorm. They need to be gone, now, but where the hell are the three in the bank? He shoots again, above head height, thinking grimly, if you just let me leave town we’ll all get out of this alive, goddammit, and rides up to the doors of the bank, calling, “Come out, boys, we’ve gotta go!”

In the distance he can see the other three have come right up to the edge of the bridge, eager to ride down to help. But that isn’t the plan, the idea is that Gabe and Balt will cover the three in the bank, then the three on the bridge will cover them in turn. If they’d just get their asses out of the bank, everyone could be out of here in a heartbeat, hopefully none the worse for the wear. But there’s no answer from the bank.

Gabe has a sudden long moment where the whole situation flashes clearly in front of him. They’re trapped in an exposed place. Their opponents - and if they aren’t evenly matched already, they will be as word spreads - are behind brick walls. And they’re most certainly shooting to kill. So this is it.

Someone hits Balt’s horse, and as it rears someone else hits him in the arm, and he screams and falls to the ground. Gabe’s back out of the saddle in the same instant, hanging onto the reins and using his horse as a makeshift shield, and this time he waits to see a head appear and aims properly before firing. He can hear the three from the bridge come thundering down into the street, and now the shots are really going, too many to track properly anymore. Cas stops his horse in front of Balt, blocking him from the gunfire and jumping down to drag him to his feet. Gabe glances over long enough to see he’s standing well, even attempting to fire with his left hand. His right sleeve is dripping red, but if they can get away, he should be alright. Gabe turns to shoot again, and then there’s another yell, and he turns to see that Adam Winchester is flat on his back, and there’s no way he’s ever going to get up again, because all that blood’s coming from his head. Damn, damn, damn, he curses to himself, this is turning into a fucking battle.

Finally Benny comes running from the bank. He unties his panicked horse, but he’s shrewd enough to stay behind it, joining in the shooting.

“Where the hell are the others?!” Garth twists around to shout at him, and he shouldn’t have done that. Gabe sees him jerk backward, but for a minute he’s steady, seemingly unaffected. Garth looks right at him and calls, “I’ve been shot,” like maybe Gabe didn’t see it. Then he falls.  
 His horse bolts, and Gabe inches forward with his own until he’s covering him too, a steady stream of curses coming out of him now as if they’ve got a life of their own. Shit, shit, fuck, and he kneels down to shake Garth, but the blood spreading across his chest is already telling him it’s a lost cause. He shoves his fingers into the side of his neck anyway, not sure he knows how to feel a pulse but pretty damn sure there isn’t one here. Shit, fuck, shit, and as he gets back to his feet his left thigh lights up like it’s on fire, and he knows he’s been shot.

Behind him he hears Dean shout, “Gabe!” and he straightens and turns, there are the Winchesters - fucking finally - and the pain is spreading, consuming his leg, but he can still move it, so he just answers by shoving himself back up into the saddle somehow.

“Garth and Adam are dead! Let’s go, go!”

Benny drags Balt up onto his horse with him, and the Miltons head in one direction, the Winchesters in another, riding as fast as they can. The alarm’s up now, and they won’t stop to meet each other anywhere. It’s every man for himself all the way home.

Every stride of his horse shoots another bolt of pain up Gabe’s leg and it’s hard for him to keep his seat, knocked around and breathless, but he’s under no illusions about what’ll happen if he’s caught. He’s never going to see the inside of a jail cell, not with his reputation and this town’s cash on him. Either he keeps moving, or he dies.

On the other hand, if he and Balt keep bleeding, there won’t be any point in running. Half an hour out, deep into some woods, Gabe calls a halt.

“Someone help me tie up my leg. Balt, let’s look at that arm.”

The news, for both of them, is mixed. The bullet went deep into the meaty, muscled part of Gabe’s leg, and it’s still in there somewhere, which means if he ever has the leisure to, he’ll have blood poisoning to worry about. For the time being, though, it’s not bleeding too heavily, and though he’s useless on foot, he can sit on a horse well enough. From the look of Balt’s arm, his bullet went through, but he’s in enough pain that it probably broke the bone on the way. It’s close to the elbow, and there’s no way of telling whether he’ll be able to use the joint again. For now, it hangs useless. It didn’t hit any of the major veins or arteries, though, something they can tell by the simple fact that he’s still alive.

Benny opens the thin little bag he’s kept tucked into his coat, and empties its contents for everyone to see. Small change, amounting to maybe twenty dollars.

“That’s all we got,” he says grimly.

“What happened?”

Benny just shakes his head. “Hell if I know.”

Cas glances at their surroundings - isolated, not bad for laying low. “Should we wait here until dark?” 

Gabe shakes his head. “Not this close. They’ll be looking for us.” 

Balt moves from sharing Benny’s horse to Cas’. The animals would have been tired enough without the added weight of a second man - as it is, the least they can do is share it. The silence is eerie, and it takes Gabe a minute to place it. The humor’s gone right out of Balt, ashen-faced and biting his lips, and Benny’s finally quit whistling. Everyone’s grim, recognizing the difficulty of the task ahead. Missouri’s two weeks away, and that’s for healthy men who can ride openly on the roads and don’t have to disguise their movements. Everyone knows where they’re headed, they can’t just make a beeline south. Besides, they’ll be creeping along at night, two of them half-useless, not enough horses - and not enough food, not when they don’t dare enter a town to buy any. The whole damn fiasco will be out across the telegraphs by evening at the latest, and if they can make it to Missouri they can hide out indefinitely, supported by their friends, but first they have to make it through all of armed Iowa. This is a desperate game.

West, Gabe decides. It feels safer.

Gabe’s feelings don’t amount to much, as it turns out. They’re not fast enough. The pain in his leg has moved into a kind of numbing heat, but he can no longer tighten his legs against the saddle long enough to keep himself on the horse at any decent speed, and Balt looks like he might be on the edge of unconsciousness, and the landscape is dotted with tiny ponds and lakes they keep having to navigate around, slogging through green muddy undergrowth that the local boys know to avoid. They hear a dog baying first, somebody’s hunting companion set on their trail. Then shouts. They pick up the pace without discussion, everybody’s instincts driving them in the same direction, and Gabe’s mind races, looking for possibilities, but there aren’t any.

And then they come to a river. It’s one of the thousands of windy little things crisscrossing this part of the country, tucked away at the bottom of a steep grade so you don’t see it coming until you’re right up on the bank, and they’re too weak and hurt to swim it, and there’s not enough time to double back, not with the shouts getting louder by the second. 

Gabe abandons his horse and starts to scramble down the slope, but his leg gives out on him two steps in and he tumbles down through leaves and roots to the edge of the water. The others follow with more care, and he glances at Benny and Cas, unhurt, and says, “You could keep going,” though at this point, it probably wouldn’t count for much.

Cas shakes his head sharply in irritation. “Don’t be stupid.” Benny doesn’t dignify the remark with an answer.

They get behind tree trunks on principle alone. Might as well make it hard for them.

Some optimist, barely more than a kid by the sound of his voice, yells, “Give up!” Benny answers him with a shot, and that’s the last of the conversation.

It’s short. The Miltons spent most of their ammunition in Northfield. Still, they keep at it while they can, ducking out and back behind the tree trunks splintering under the bullets coming down at them. Benny yells and falls back still, and Gabe forces himself not to look, feeling a sudden wave of grief after all, for all of them, because that’s it, this is really the end.

Their guns click empty, and after a few more rounds the posse catches on and comes running and stumbling down the slope, and in the last second he has Gabe looks wildly at his brothers and sees them looking as feral as he feels, and thinks, alright, fine, but I’ll go down scratching and biting - and then they’re on him, boots slamming into his shoulders and ribs, a fist cracking into his nose, then another boot into his bad thigh, and without conscious thought he’s curled into a little ball and it turns out they’ve taken all the fight out of him, after all. He’s beaten.

Hands drag him up and try to put his arms behind him, but his leg gives out again and he nearly wrenches his arms out of the sockets as he goes down. They put him on his face then and tie his hands, and he breathes wet dirt and thinks bitterly, don’t even bother making me stand, boys, you can just carry me to the noose. He can hear Balt whimpering slightly - they must be bending back his damaged arm, and it’s nothing but cruelty, the bastards - but protesting might sound like begging, and those aren’t going to be Gabe’s last words. It’ll be over soon enough, anyway. 

Then they haul him back up, some farmer’s arm around his back, half like he’s holding him prisoner and half like he’s helping a drunk friend home, and a stocky man steps in front of him and says gravely, “You’re under arrest.”

*******************************

As first the Winchesters ride stupidly, due south, just as fast as they can. Neither of them was struck in the shootout, thank God, and they make good time for a couple of hours without anyone catching up to them. Then they take the time to be a little craftier about it, crossing streams and taking the smaller trails they can find. At every possible turning, Sam heads south, or east, or as close to a combination of the two as he can.

Finally, Dean raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t this a little risky?”

If they keep going this way, they’ll eventually run into Milwaukee; if they go even farther, they’ll hit Chicago, only the headquarters of the Pinkerton Agency itself. If they angle a bit further to the south, things are hardly any better - they’ve operated too long in the area around Cedar Rapids to be secretive, and it certainly won’t have endeared them to the locals.

Sam shrugs. “They won’t expect it.”

“Well, alright - but how the hell do we get back to Missouri!”

“We can worry about that once we lose ‘em.”

There’s no point in worrying about Cas. One, because it won’t do anything but distract Dean, make him careless, which he can’t afford, and two, because Cas is smart and tough and mean when he needs to be, and he doesn’t need any of Dean’s worry. He’ll be fine. He will.

So Dean turns his mind back to the road in front of him, and he makes damn sure it stays there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the sympathy, guys. I'm doing better and this is a good distraction.


	31. Chapter 31

For a long time, Gabe half-believes it’s a cruel joke. Their captors quickly recognize that they can’t go any further on horseback, and so they walk them back through the underbrush, mostly dragging Gabe along, and deposit them in the dust on the side of the road. One of them rides off to fetch a cart, and the rest of them stand around awkwardly with their guns hanging at their sides, staring silently at their prisoners. In the end, it’s the quiet that convinces Gabe that he is, in fact, under arrest. He stares stonily at the dirt, determined to preserve some semblance of dignity, but no one taunts or threatens him the way he imagines they would if they wanted to see him suffer. In front of him, some farm boy’s boot scuffs idly back and forth. The birds regain confidence and begin to sing. Gabe’s left eye slowly swells shut.

As soon as the immediate threat of death is removed, Gabe’s mind seems to shut down. For a while he thinks nothing, feels almost nothing, just muted throbs of pain that come to him like shouts from the other side of a wall. He’s hefted onto the cart without making much effort to assist them - they caught him, let them worry about transporting him now - bears the jolting without complaint, doesn’t much register their transfer to a jail cell and the guard that’s set outside the door. A photographer comes to take their pictures, whether for the Pinkertons or the newspaper is not made clear, and Gabe holds still for the nervous man hovering by the door without comment, fixing the gaze of his one good eye on the grimy corner of his cell. He only comes back to himself when the photographer is replaced by a doctor, aware that whatever he’s going to do, it is going to seriously hurt.

The doctor is a butcher of the old school, unimpressed by their reputation, and he gives Cas a brisk once-over before dismissing him as, “a little banged-up, that’s all.” Then he turns to his real work with the other two.

There’s a bucket of water, so the doctor can rinse off the dried blood before he forces his fingers into the wound, and a rag to wipe his hands on when he’s done. There are linen bandages, a real roll of them like Gabe hasn’t seen since 1862, and then are a few ominous pieces of metal for cutting, or spreading, or squeezing. Finally, there is the obligatory needle and thread. He lays these things out like a torturer showing them his tools, but he doesn’t have any of the nerves or even the interest befitting that job description. These are just the latest in the long line of bodies he’s seen.

“I hear you’re a veteran?” he asks Gabe.

“Yessir.”

“Then I expect you know how this goes. If you don’t hold still, I’ll just do more damage. So: do I need to call another guard, or can I trust you not to squirm?”

It’s nothing less than a challenge. I’m going to thrust my fingers into your leg and root around a while. Are you going to complain about it?

Probably. Gabe’s too old to have that kind of foolish pride, and anyone who thinks less of him for crying out hasn’t experienced it, and doesn’t have a right to an opinion. He nods at his brother.

“If it’s too bad, Cas will help. A guard won’t be necessary.”

The doctor raises an almost approving eyebrow, and then he’s done chatting. He wets the makeshift bandages to loosen the dried blood before peeling them off. Then he probes the extent of the wound with his fingers, removes the bullet, and stitches it up.

Gabe’s mind loses all capacity for complex thought, but perversely, it doesn’t shut down again. He keeps his face resolutely averted, but he’s acutely aware of everything that’s being done, even the sounds alerting him to what’s coming next. Some part of him is distantly gratified that he doesn’t, actually, squirm very much, but his muscles tighten down, rigid against the pain, a reaction that only makes it worse but which he’s powerless to stop. He tries to let his mind drift, to experience it like an animal would, without analysis, but his nerves have reawakened and insist on reporting the extent of the wound to him in excruciating detail, while his mind runs through morbid speculation on what permanent damage it might do. Cas ends up bearing down hard on his shoulder, which is more comforting than restraining, and Gabe isn’t so much thankful as he makes a mental note to be, later, when he has the capacity.

When the doctor has finished punching black thread through the edges of Gabe’s wound, he bites the remnant free, and wipes Gabe’s blood off his fingers. Then he turns to Balt, still worryingly silent in a corner.

“Now, let’s set that arm.”

*******************************

The Winchesters ran out of store-bought food two days ago. It isn’t an immediate problem. They managed to steal a chicken from over a fence after dark last night, and there’s always clover, acorns, dandelion greens - pretty foul stuff, but they won’t starve to death.

It makes it hard to sleep, though. They travel at night, slowly. When the sky starts getting light they lay down in thick green underbrush where deer normally bed down, and the rest of the world gets up and starts making noise all around them. It’s bright, they’re on edge, and their stomachs are aching. Dean wakes up every hour or so, convinced he heard something - only to discover it’s nothing, and settle back down again.

Pretty soon, they’ll have to begin the swing back towards Missouri and the west. There’s no way of knowing what might be waiting for them there - or in any direction, really - but it’s a good bet that Iowa’s the unhealthiest state in the union for them right now. They need to get out and away.

Dean knows the farm is a stupid idea when they see it, but it’s dawn, they’re tired, and even he can tell from looking at them that these fields haven’t been tilled in a while. They lead their horses up to the house, walking slowly, full, round, carefully placed steps so as not to rustle the leaves and dirt scattered over the path. This is a good sign- no one’s been walking up from the fields in a while. No roosters are crowing; there’s no sound of animals at all. The windows of the house are dark. If it’s abandoned, they could slip in and sleep on the floor - or even a bed if the furniture was left behind - although Dean’ll insist on airing it out first if that’s the case. Nobody would waste a good bedstead unless somebody sickened and died in it.

They slip up onto the porch to peer into the windows - and and a tall, dark, wiry woman throws the door back and puts a shotgun in their faces.

“You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow. I get one more day,” she says firmly.

“Uh... okay. We’ll come back tomorrow then,” Sam answers, already backing away with his hands up.

“Stop,” she demands. Shit. Dean should’ve done the talking, Sam can’t lie worth a damn.

“Who are you?”

Sam turns his soulful, pleading eyes on her, but before he can do any explaining Dean speaks over him. “Two men who’re leaving.”

The woman’s eyes just narrow. “You could have waited, you vultures.” Then she shifts her eyes to Sam - who, fuck, has to be giving off his air of offended dignity - and says, “Not that either? Then who are you?” 

She’s only addressing Sam. Obviously she’s figured out he’s the weak link here. Well, let those eyes of his go to work.

“I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t tell you. Just know you don’t want to get involved. lf you let us, we’ll just turn around and walk away. That’ll be better for everyone.”

“Oh really? You know what’s best for me?”

“No, I -”

“I’m gonna make a guess here, you don’t have to answer me - you won’t tell me your names because you’re on the run. If I went down to the sheriff now and told him about how I met you two at dawn, that’d be a real problem for you, wouldn’t it? So you need something from me.”

“Or we could kill you now,” Dean growls, but it’s all show and she knows it. She laughs in his face.

“There’s two of you, one of me, and I don’t flatter myself I’m holding this gun very well, so if I’m not dead yet? I won’t be. Not unless I push you to it, and I don’t plan on doing that.”

Sam says, “Thank you,” all earnest, and Dean thinks, no, too easy.

“But if I do you a favor, I think I deserve one in return.”

“Like what?” Dean asks.

“They’re foreclosing on this place tomorrow, and you know what I’m going to do? I don’t. I’ve got relatives in Tennessee, but if I had the money to get there, well, I wouldn’t be in this situation, now would I? So: you give me your money, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Sam shakes his head slowly. “We don’t have any money.”

“Now I find that hard to believe, two big boys like you. Well, I guess I’ll just have to see if there’s a reward for turning you in-”

“No, listen -” Sam takes an eager step forward, but the nervous twitch of the shotgun makes him step right back. “It’s true. We’ve... well, you’re right, we’re in trouble, and part of it is we don’t have anything. Not a cent on us. We’ve been eating field greens for the past two days.”

Dean can see it taking effect as her stance softens a little, but then she just shakes her head in frustration. “Well - damn it, you’re still two men with guns, can’t you just steal some?”

“No,” Dean answers quickly, before Sam gets any stupid ideas. “It’ll call attention to us. We can’t afford that.”

Sam’s thinking, and Dean’s not sure if this is good or bad. “Where are you trying to go in Tennessee?”

“Nashville.”

“What if we came with you?”

She frowns. “Well, as nice as an armed guard sounds, we’ll all starve to death before we get there.”

Sam takes his step forward again, slower this time. The gun dips just a bit. Dean’s a little proud of his brother.

“We might be able to... convince somebody on the road to share. All I know is, we need to get out of Iowa, you need to get to Tennessee. You need help, and we need to not match our descriptions. So I’m asking - you mind an escort, ma’am?”

Sam gives his best crooked little-boy smile, the one that, Dean’ll admit it, usually melts his resistance, but the woman just rolls her eyes. Then she puts down the gun.

“Alright. All I’ve got is bread, but it’s better than weeds.”

“Does that mean-”

“Yes it does, are you going to come eat or not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- The Pinkertons were some of the first to take mug shots, and definitely would have wanted them for these guys. But pictures of them would also almost immediately have hit the papers.
> 
> 2- Paradoxically, the Civil War was actually the catalyst for a lot of medical advances. But they took a while to take hold, and so a "butcher of the old school" is the kind who has never heard of disinfectant, etc. This guy has wartime experience, so he definitely knows his way around a bullet wound, but it's about 50/50 on whether he does more harm or good.
> 
> 3- Anesthetic exists in the time period, usually either chloroform or ether, but though the citizens aren't killing the Miltons, they're not about to do anything to make them comfortable, either.
> 
> 4- Dandelion greens are very bitter but actually very nutritious. Clover is also quite tasty - try it!
> 
> 5- Options for a woman without money, land, friends, or family: a, prositution, b, death. Or c, befriend fugitives?


	32. Chapter 32

Gabe spends the morning of the next day in the back of another cart, jolting along the road between Watonwan and Rice counties. You’ve got to be tried where you did the crime, that’s a law even Gabe knows, but he wonders how in the hell they think he’ll get a fair trial so close to the town that nearly killed him. The sun beats down on the three of them, but while Balt and Cas wipe away beads of sweat, Gabe shivers from time to time, the victim of sudden chills that raise goosepimples so hard they ache. It means he’s feverish. His damaged leg feels boiling hot through its bandages. Infection.

Their new jail cell in Faribault has a few hastily named deputies lounging around it, keeping the rest of the town away. The Minnesotan officials appear determined not to let mob justice take its course. They’re going to do this by the book, and in a way it only makes Gabe angrier. He’s an outlaw, he’s a danger to society in general and deadly to many people in particular, and it’s only to be expected that society would revenge itself on him. That’s fair. But he’s not going to tolerate any sermonizing from the likes of these townsmen, as if none of them ever pushed too ruthlessly for advantage in a business deal, never slept with some girl on Saturday night and then sat next to their wives in church on Sunday morning, never hung back during a charge in their soldiering days. Gabe doesn’t think he’s ever met a man who didn’t get his hands dirty somehow. He doesn’t mind being called out on what he’s done. What he resents is being turned into a prop in a pageant, a chained animal to display in contrast with the judge’s robes and the far-from-gentlemen of the jury, a long slow elaborate dance to the same end: a rope and a drop. They’re not proving his guilt, they’re proving their innocence. Gabe almost hopes his inflamed leg won’t give them the satisfaction.

The deputies keep out the majority of the town, but they let through a newspaperman. He stands against the wall, out of reach of the bars as if he thinks one of them might reach out and throttle him, and asks if they have anything to say. Balt and Cas look to him expectantly. Gabe realizes he’s setting the tone they’ll all take, the tone that’ll carry through their trial.

He lifts his chin and says, “We tried a desperate game and lost. But we are rough men used to rough ways, and we will abide by the consequences.”

The newspaperman leaves satisfied, stepping aside to make way for their next visitor. Balt, who has the best view of the door, scrabbles to his feet.

“Anna!”

Someone wired her at some point. They’ve got a right to a lawyer, after all. That’s presumably why there’s someone following her, a big, heavyset man with a rumpled suit and broken capillaries across his nose and cheekbones. 

Anna’s eyes skitter from Balt’s arm to Gabe’s leg, but she just pulls herself up a little straighter and says, “How are you?” From where she’s looking, it appears she’s talking to the far wall, but Cas answers for them.

“We’re alright.”

She nods stiffly. “I found you a lawyer. He’s... Well, he was the best one willing to take the case.” She lowers her eyes to focus on Cas and suddenly her voice is shaking. If you didn’t know her, you might think she was near tears, but Anna’s eyes are dry. “It’s too bad, Castiel. If it weren’t for these two... You wouldn’t have been here.”

Cas just shrugs, and Anna sweeps out of the room without saying a word.

The lawyer laughs awkwardly. “She’s somethin’ else, huh?”

Balt narrows his eyes, but the lawyer doesn’t notice, too busy pulling up a chair. He collapses into it with a sigh and folds his hands over his paunch, seeming totally at ease.

“When she said ‘the best one willing to take the case’? She meant only one. James Eusebius Blackmon at your service.” He sticks his hand through the bars, and no one shakes it. He cough-laughs awkwardly again and withdraws it, wiping it on his knee, and continues. 

“I ain’t the best lawyer in the world, I’ll tell you right now. I ain’t practiced in years. But a baby could see his way through this case, and besides, I’ve got one very important qualification - I might be the only man who’s passed the Minnesota bar who’s willing to stand up for you in court. Wasn’t licensed here originally, you see. I’m a Mississippi boy. Moved out here for the farming, but there ain’t much love lost between me and the neighbors.” 

He must see that no one’s really listening to him. He coughs again. “So. I’ll get right down to it - you’re guilty and everybody knows it. Ain’t no use pleading otherwise.”

“We weren’t going to,” Gabe answers.

“Good. Alright then, it’s just a question of working with what we got.”

“Look, I don’t know what you expect to be able to do. They’re going to hang us, that’s set, and I don’t want any theatrics before they do.”

The lawyer holds up his hands like he’s shocked. “Now wait, why are they going to hang you?”

“Because of the fact that we did it,” Cas says bluntly.

A slow, oily grin spreads across the lawyer’s face. “Oh - facts. Is that all?”

*******************************

It’s an adaptation of the old train trick. A thick, twisted branch in the middle of the road, visible in the moonlight but too late to avoid without pulling up to a stop. They don’t wait long. When they hear hoofbeats Dean and Sam get to their feet, waiting in a crouch. To her credit, the woman doesn’t make a sound.

They burst out together, Dean grabbing for the reins while Sam aims his pistol at their victim’s head. He’s tall enough to press it right up against him. There are no more bullets in it - in either of their guns - but he doesn’t know that, and he cringes desperately away while Sam growls for his money.

“You’re - the Winchesters, aren’t you?”

Shit. It was bad enough that he’d have a story to tell about two highway robbers, but Dean had been hoping it would take a while for someone to realize exactly who they were. If he tells, everyone will know which direction they’ve been headed. They’ll concentrate their search, surround the Winchesters, and finish them off.

Sam’s had the same thought. He drags the man off his horse, Dean still holding it steady, and deposits him in a heap in on the ground. Sam kneels down next to him, and Dean expects threats, but instead Sam just quietly says, “I’m sorry.”

For a second Dean doesn’t understand - and then he yells, “Hey! Sam, stop!”

Sam pauses with his knife at the man’s throat, knee in his chest, and answers in that voice that says Dean’s being childish, “It’s him or us, Dean. I don’t like it any better than you, but I’m not going to die in Iowa.”

“We can’t just - murder him!”

The man can’t help squirming a little in fear. “No, don’t,” he pleads, and Sam looks down, kind of sad but so grim and determined, and Dean grits his teeth - and the woman steps out of the bushes.

“Wait!” 

Sam does. She crouches down by them and says, conversational like she’s pointing out landmarks, “This is Jeremiah Watson. He own the dry goods store. The weights on his scales never seem quite right. He’s got a wife and three children. And right now, he’s probably coming back from visiting his mistress. Right, Jeremiah?”

He just nods, even more wide-eyed than before. The woman’s tone sharpens. “He’s good at keeping secrets. He’s got lots of them. He can keep this secret. Because he knows if he doesn’t, I can lead you, or your friends if they catch you, back to his house, and you can kill everyone in it. Just like old times. Right, Jeremiah?”

He breathes, “I won’t tell, I won’t, no.”

She lays a hand on Sam’s arm, and holds the other one out for the knife. “Alright? Can we let him go?”

Sam hesitates, then nods. Everyone exhales. He keeps his knife, though.

When they’ve left Mr. Watson gasping on the side of the road behind them, she turns to them with a deadpan face and says flatly, “I didn’t catch your names.”

Sam says, “John. Campbell.”

Dean adds, “Henry Milton.” 

Sam’s head jerks to look at him, but Dean just stares ahead at the strange woman who had a convenient deaf spell back there, and asks, “And you are?”

She considers, then smiles slowly. “Ruby.”

“Is that your real name?”

“It is now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Gabe's "We tried a desperate game and lost. But we are rough men used to rough ways, and we will abide by the consequences," is a direct quote from Cole Younger. But the context is my own.
> 
> 2- So in the US, you're licensed as a lawyer by the state, not the entire country. It's not uncommon for lawyers to get certified for multiple states if they live near the border, move from one to the other, have special business interests, etc. Although the Miltons have supporters in Missouri, none of them are qualified to defend them. They have to have someone certified in Minnesota law.
> 
> 3- Funny weights on scales is how a businessman using them can cheat his customers out of getting all they've paid for.


	33. Chapter 33

Gabe doesn’t know what he expected from Blackmon - legal grandstanding, he guesses, for him to step into the pantomime and try to turn his into the starring role - but that’s not what happens. Instead, their fat, bumbling little lawyer leaves the jailhouse and heads to the bar, where he has a beer or seven with a buddy he lets hunt in his woods each year. That man talks to his brother-in-law, and he in turn talks to his best friend since childhood - the prosecutor. The next day, the Miltons are offered a plea deal.

“Now, it may not look like much, but think about this,” Blackmon says now, shifting forward so that his chair creaks under him. “You know if you take this to trial you don’t stand a chance. Wouldn’t matter if Lincoln himself rose from the grave to plead your case. You don’t want to fight this out. Now if you just go ahead and admit to the charges, you get life in prison. Hanging’s off the table - and nobody gets to take the kiddies to the courthouse and make a day out of watching the trial,” he says, nodding to Gabe. 

Balt makes an uncertain noise. “Life in prison.”

“Is still life,” Blackmon points out. “Besides - you don’t think life means life, do you? I ain’t saying you’ll be out in five, but you act decent, you’ll get parole before you need a walking stick. I know it ain’t ideal, but I did the best I could.”

Gabe nods. “No, this is good. We’ll take the deal.”

*******************************

All the way from Minnesota, Dean had this uneasy feeling in his gut. He could feel the people hunting them by the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He didn’t really worry too much about himself. He’d been hunted most of his life and they hadn’t caught up yet. But he didn’t like the idea of letting the people he cared about out of his sight. It’s not like there’s so many of ‘em that he could afford to lose a few. And especially Cas - but it wasn’t the time to dwell on that.

They stop two days outside of Nashville. They’d planned on putting Ruby on a train and letting her ride the rest of the way alone, so she could pretend she’d come the whole way alone. Her family would hardly be happy to see her come home with two strange men. In fact, Ruby’d muttered, they’d hardly be happy to see her come home at all, but that wasn’t Dean’s problem. He was eager to drop her and turn west again, back to Missouri.

They get to the little station too late for the last train of the day. For days now they’ve been sleeping in the brush, Ruby on the other side of a tree or something as if there was any propriety to it, with the coat Sam insisted on giving her as her blanket and Dean squashed close to his brother under his own. But that evening they’re a little flush with money. It was earned almost honestly, too - Dean ventured into a bar the day before and won a few poker games. They decide to spring for the town’s cheap hotel.

People look askance at them. Dean glances down just to make sure there aren’t any dead leaves sticking to him or something, but no, it’s just his general dirtiness, apparently. They order two rooms, and the clerk pushes the book across to them for them to sign their names. Sam signs, then Ruby, while Dean scans the room’s exits and tries to look like he isn’t. Then he takes the pen, writes “Mr.”, and damn near writes a “D”. That’s not his name, though, not right now, and he manages to salvage it into a blotchy “H” and go on, Henry Milton, checking in with not-his-brother Mr. John Campbell and... Mrs. Ruby Campbell?

They have no bags, of course. The clerk pauses in confusion at that, and then he takes two keys down and leads them up a narrow staircase and then down a hall. Dean doesn’t bother to open his own door, following the supposed Campbells into their supposed room and staring hard at the clerk until he spins awkwardly on his heel and leaves. 

“You signed Mrs. Campbell?” he whispers incredulously, and Sam’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You did?”

“Well it was wife or sister, and I don’t look like either of you. And anyone can tell you won’t get near me,” she snaps back at Dean.

“Sounds like a convincing husband to me,” Dean mutters, but Sam sighs and raises a hand, tired after nearly two weeks of bickering. Dean’s almost sorry, but something about this girl just bothers him.

“She’s right, and it’s fine. Give her your key and we can all go to sleep.”

Dean holds it out, and she brings her hand forward, but it’s not empty. She has a newspaper rolled in it that she offers in exchange, her eyes knowing and hard. 

“It was on the desk downstairs. Thought you might find it interesting.”

Dean keeps his eyes on her until she’s closed the door behind her with a soft click. Then he opens it, and the nerves that have followed him from Minnesota disappear. Suddenly, all he feels is sick.

They’re front-page news. Not the Winchesters, no one cares about the Winchesters right now, not when they’ve got the Miltons to talk about. They’re caught. Cas and Gabe and Balt, they’re all looking back at him, unsmiling, up against some brick wall somewhere in Minnesota with big black letters gloating about it. 

Dean must have made some kind of sound, because Sam’s hovering behind his shoulder now, reading. Dean’s not. His eyes keep getting pulled away from the letters to the pictures. Cas has a split lip. He’s not looking at the camera, but somewhere off to his right, with his jaw pressed tight and his eyes narrowed - not in pain, thank God. That’s irritation, not the light, tolerant kind his face shows when Gabe teases him but the bitter, closed-off way he looked when Alfie first died, when he was just enduring Dean’s arms. That’s how Cas looks when he’s thinking about dying. Oh shit.

Now Dean’s reading too, scanning as fast as he can to find the part of the article that’ll talk about their trial, their sentence, have they been sentenced? It’s not hanging, it’s not, it’s not, he’s saying stubbornly to himself, like he can make that true, but it distracts him so much that he can’t find the word anywhere, can’t find anything about a trial.

“Where does it say - what are they doing with them?”

“They made a plea deal. Uh - they went ahead and said they’re guilty and they get life in prison,” Sam explains hurriedly.

Life. Okay, well - it’s not death. It’s life. In prison. But life. So. That’s good.

Sam says something about talking this over tomorrow, and Dean nods, not really listening. They blow out the lamps and get into bed. Dean doesn’t sleep. He spends the night repeating this wonderful, terrible word to himself. Life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Normally you get a plea deal if the court wants to save the time and trouble of your trial, or they need something out of you - maybe they aren't really sure they can convict you so they want your confession, or they want you to give up accomplices, etc... They don't have to offer you one though, and in this case I don't see why the state of Minnesota would unless the lawyer did a little social finagling.
> 
> 2- Technically, a lot of court cases are still open to the public, but trials aren't the social event they used to be. Hangings were also public affairs in many places. People really did bring the kids. It was considered educational.
> 
> 3- As a woman in the period, you can really only respectably travel with men who are your blood relations or your husband. If Ruby doesn't claim one of these relationships, she will probably be told that it isn't that kind of hotel and they'll be turned away.


	34. Chapter 34

Gabe’s cell is five feet by seven feet by eight feet. There is a bed consuming half of the available space. A straight-backed wooden chair is next to it, which must be shoved back and forth out of the way if he wants to get into bed. If he wanted to pace, he could put the chair on the bed. But he won’t do that. Gabe is determined not to fall into any of the cliches of prison life. He has a long time to spend here, and once he starts feeling trapped, he won’t be able to get it out of his head. He suspects that that way madness lies. He knows he’s got a fine mind, better than a lot of people’s, and that hasn’t been locked up. Gabe can go anywhere if he shuts his eyes. He’s run around for a very long time, and now the state of Minnesota is paying for his rest. That’s all. It’s alright.

But once, at night, Gabe got restless, and he did a stupid thing. He measured the space with his eyes, and he counted it off, and now he knows: it’s five, by seven, by eight.

*******************************

They never did go back to Missouri. What was the damn point? There was nothing for either Winchester there anymore but trouble. They never really went anywhere at all. Bobby wired them - or rather, Campbell and Milton - the cash they’d hidden under his floorboards, and they found a little piece of land someone was selling right outside of town, complete with a run-down cabin.

Ruby decided she didn’t want to go home after all. Everyone still knows her as Mrs. Campbell, and that makes them respectable, but she has one room in the house, and Dean shares the other with his brother. Sam doesn’t seem to mind. Dean supposes it’s useful for him, keeps any other woman away. And they have someone to keep house. It’s practical.

It grates, though. He knew Sam's real wife, and this ain’t her. It’s just one of a thousand things that stick in Dean’s mind and his throat these days, fill his mouth with such a bad taste he has to spit. 

Adam’s dead. So’s Garth. Dean knew that, or he wouldn’t have left town without them, but it’s awful to remember, and there’s worse. Further back from the front page occupied by the Miltons, the paper had printed photos of their bodies. At first Dean closed it right up again and didn’t look, but eventually he couldn’t resist. He ended up getting drunk and staring, face close to the grainy ink. Someone had stripped them of their shirts, wiped the dirt and blood off of them in a hurry. He could still see smears on Garth’s skinny chest, a big circular swipe of someone’s rag. But then they’d propped them up, eyes frozen open, to take the photo, and when they did that more blood must have trickled back out. There’s one round, dark hole each, Garth’s in his heart, Adam’s in the middle of his forehead, and each has just a single, fat black line running down from it. Not very far, a few inches. It was cold blood, dead blood, already thick and slow. Something about that’s the worst thing - thinking about someone pushing and pulling at their bodies, arranging them for a portrait like a trophy. Showing the rest of the world what his brother’s cold naked corpse looks like. Why don’t you just hang their fucking heads on your wall, Dean thinks, and the sour taste fills his mouth again. He spits.

They didn’t take a picture of Benny. They didn’t even mention his name, just said one more was killed when they took the Miltons. Dean wonders where they buried him. Benny’s nameless for eternity, now. Dean spits.

If God was trying to get Dean Winchester to speak to him again, though, he succeeded, because every time Adam and Garth’s faces come to mind - in other words, every day - he thanks God he didn’t have to see Cas like that. Cas is alive. Sam is alive. Dean is alive. It could be worse.

Dean’s used to thinking like that. This isn’t the first time he’s come back to a run-down house and a weed-choked field and counted all the dead he’s known and just tried to be content he’s not among them. This time, though, it’s different. This time as he and Sam hammer at the house Sam doesn’t laugh, doesn’t talk about the future, doesn’t say anything at all. This time the woman in the house is more sour than sweet, and the way Dean teases her has real anger behind it, and Sam doesn’t smile at either one of them when he breaks it up. 

And when Dean’s out in this field he never wanted, the one he planted with Indian corn because Cas said he’d had luck with it, the sun beats down on him and his back hurts and he thinks about a kid of fifteen with dark hair and blue eyes, doing this for the first time, he thinks about the nineteen-year-old who looked so young and slim and how powerful his arms must really have been, back before Dean had ever touched them, he thinks about the twenty-six-year-old man whose scars Dean has memorized, whose name he’s taken, somewhere behind layers of stone and brick and steel, getting paler, untouched by the sun Dean’s under, and he spits and he spits and he spits.

Is he supposed to sit at home and stare at the dark, cold man who used to be his sweet kid brother? Even if he could deal with Sam, Dean can’t put up with Ruby’s mouth that long. Most evenings, he rides into town and gets good and drunk, so drunk he mostly just trusts the horse to know its way home. Men gossip as much as women, and before long Dean gets to know the town’s business pretty well. He figures they talk about him too, but only when he’s not around.

One night he hears something that gives him a real stupid idea. Braden’s widow is having trouble making ends meet. She’s got a young son to take care of, and most of the town feels sorry for her. The grocer’s pretty much decided he’s not going to collect on the bill she keeps running up. But the tax collector’s coming around soon, and he won’t be nearly as understanding.

Dean rides home and stumbles into the house, wincing as he runs into a chair. He pulls up the stone by the fireplace hearth that covers a hole and takes out his bundle of cash. He tell by the feel which is his: the lighter. He’s been burning through it lately. Well, he’ll be more careful if this works. He’s sure Sam’ll be out with a shotgun any minute, investigating the noise, but he never comes. Then Dean heads back out, and back to town.

He ties up his horse pretty far away, among the woods, walks as quietly as he can, then jumps Lisa Braden’s back fence. The house is ideal for this, really, right at the edge of town. He knocks.

She doesn’t even have a gun in her hand when she opens the door. That’s how naive she is, or maybe how much she trusts her neighbors to come running if she screams, Dean’s not sure. He’s never really understood people who live in town. She didn’t take the time to dress, but she’s got a shawl thrown over her nightgown, and she clutches it closer when she sees who it is.

“Mr. Milton? What’s going on?”

“Shh. I wanted to make a deal with you.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket and shows her the cash - and she slaps him.

“Go to hell,” she hisses, and for a minute he can’t understand. Then he realizes what this looks like.

“Oh! Christ, no! Sorry, I mean, no, ma’am, it’s not like that. I wanted you to send a letter for me - I thought I could pay you - I’m drunk.”

“I can see that.”

For a minute she just looks at him, evaluating. He tries to look respectable, but he’s damn near certain he fails.

“Tell me what your deal is.”

He swallows, suddenly aware that he’s out in the open.

“Can I come in?”

“No you may not.”

“It’s got to be a secret.”

“Then whisper it.”

“I want to send a letter, and it can’t come from me. I can’t be sure other people wouldn’t read it. And if I get a reply, the postman’s a damn gossip anyway, and - well, I thought I could send it under your name. Give your address, if he’s allowed to answer...”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

Dean swallows hard. “A prisoner. And in return I’ll pay you, I heard you need money and I could help with that -”

“No, wait. Before we do any talking about payment, I need to know who the prisoner is.”

She hasn’t turned him down outright, then. 

“Why?”

“If you’re going to be using my name, I think I have a right to know.”

Fair enough, Dean guesses. He can see her settling into the idea. This is going better than he’d ever hoped - she must really need the money.

“It’s - Cas Milton. In Stillwater prison. Minnesota.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, but then she nods, almost like it’s confirmed something for her. “You’re related to those Miltons.”

“Uh - yeah. Yeah.”

“People talked, when you showed up.” She sees the fear on his face and adds, “I think they’re content to wonder, though. So long as there’s no trouble.”

Dean nods, inventing quickly. “It ain’t a popular name. That’s why I moved... I don’t want anyone to know about the connection. But he - they’re my family. I can’t just disappear on ‘em.”

She thinks for a long minute. Then she nods. “Alright. But if there’s any trouble-”

“There won’t be, no ma’am.”

“Alright.”

He holds the money back out to her. “That’s all I’ve got. I don’t know how much you need...”

She gasps, but to her credit, her voice stays whispered. “This is a lot of money.” 

“Take it.” She gives him a hard, doubtful look, and he awkwardly fakes a whispered laugh. “Really, it’s just another favor to take it away from me. I ain’t doing much with it but drink it all away.”

She shakes her head, but then she folds her hand around it.

The sky’s starting to lighten. Dean straightens up again and holds out his hand to shake. “Thank you, ma’am. I guess I’ll - bring you a letter.”

Her handshake is firm, and so is her voice. “You come in the daylight next time.”

The tax man comes that week, and the widow Braden, it turns out, does have enough to pay him after all. Not that it does him much good - two days after that, further along his circuit, some highway robber ambushes him and steals it all. The man had a bandana tied around his face, and the newspapers can’t even print a description worth a damn.

Dean may be an honest farmer now, but he ain’t a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - Those are in fact the actual dimensions of a jail cell in old Stillwater prison.
> 
> 2 - Fun fact: if you publicly declare yourself to be husband and wife, and live as such for a certain period of time, the law used to consider you actually and legally married. That's what common-law marriage is. It's an old Anglo-Saxon law that used to be on the books just about everywhere - but weirdly, never in Tennessee. On the other hand, it's legal to this day in: Alabama, Colorado, Iowa, Kansas, Montana, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Texas, and Utah.
> 
> 3 - They really did take pictures of two of the dead outlaws from the real Northfield raid, and what's worse, the medical student that shot Clell Miller claimed to have kept the body. He displayed the skeleton in his office. Seriously. Eventually a family member got ahold of it and buried it, if it was really him, but they've never been sure. There was a whole thing about how they were going to do DNA testing last year and then in the end it all fell through. Once again, the shocking stuff is what I don't make up. WARNING: if you search for Clell Miller on google, pictures of his corpse are all over. It is not pleasant.


	35. Chapter 35

Gabriel Milton is prisoner #700. 

Generally, it isn’t something he ever thinks about. Victor Hugo seems to make so much of his hero being assigned a number, but in real life, Gabe thinks even the warden would probably have to go back to his books to look up his number. He only remembers it because it’s his, and because it’s a nice, round number. And, of course, it’s easy to remember Cas and Balt: 701 and 702, respectively.

But then, if Hugo’s to be believed, life as a free man in France is worse than life in Stillwater. Gabe supposes this book made its way into the prison library because someone considered that the story of a prisoner’s change of heart would be edifying - but a prisoner sees things differently. He’s pondering this when the guard comes around to unlock his cell.

“Mornin’, Gabe.”

He’s got a bit of a reputation. The guards like to tell their wives how they’re chatty with the fearsome outlaw.

“Mornin’,” he nods, leaving Les Miserables behind on his bed and falling into line. Barton, two cells along from him, elbows him. 

“Well? How’re you liking it?”

“I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

“Valjean?”

“Yeah. He thinks things change.”

Barton chuckles dryly. “Not buying the conversion either, are you?”

Gabe shrugs. “It’s not even that. He thinks he’s making his decisions, but he isn’t. The world makes them for him. He is who he is. Things are what they are. He can fight it all he wants, but it’s... fate.”

Barton nods thoughtfully, but they’re too close to the shops now to continue the discussion. The machines make a noise which is neither roar nor clash but a little of both, kind of a high-pitched sound, like a metallic waterfall. Barton steps away to his own work in another room, and Gabe continues, following the line to his own shop.

Spinning twine is about the most irritating thing Gabe can imagine. The material is coarse, rough enough to make even hardened fingers like his sore, and the machine demands a level of concentration that keeps him from thinking about anything else, while simultaneously being incredibly dull. Before he steps into place he glances around for Balt and Cas, who should be working nearby machines. They can’t talk over the din, but they can pass pre-written notes if they’re subtle. Balt catches his eye and nods, but Cas is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Carter? Where’s my brother?”

“Sick in his cell,” the prison guard quotes, exactly what’ll be written in the record book for the day.

Gabe frowns. “Again? What’s wrong with him?”

He gets a shrug in return. “Sick in his cell, that’s all I know.”

Today Gabe has no news for Balt, and Balt has no note to give him, either. They nod again at the end of the day, and then Balt falls into line and moves off to his own wing.

Gabe goes back to reading Les Miserables while he eats. The beef is a bit too salty, the corn mush dry. It wouldn’t be too bad if he could wash it down with a beer. He tries to lose himself in the book instead.

He succeeds, too - he jolts back to awareness to the sound of someone yelling his name.

“I said, MILTON! You gonna finish your article by Friday? Paper’s got a deadline, you know?”

Gabe gets right up to the bars of his cell and cranes his head up, not because he thinks he’ll catch a glimpse of the man addressing him - Manning’s three cells to the right and a tier further up - but to help his voice carry.

“Don’t yell at me. I’ll be done in time.”

Someone else bellows from further down the line, “Shut up about your damn paper! Send him a note if you like writing so much!”

“Shut up yourself! And anyway, I did!”

Gabe calls, “Alright, that’s enough, boys. Manning, send me that note again, I’m watching for it now.”

A folded bit of paper comes slung down over the ceiling of his tier, dangling at the end of a length of twine taken from work. Gabe takes his own, weighted with a rock from the prison yard, and swings it to the hanging note, dragging it to the ground and then between his bars. He frees the paper, then gives a small tug on Manning’s twine, which immediately twitches and slithers away as its owner drags it back. He notes with satisfaction that the budding argument has been silenced.

The first week he was here, Gabe’s reputation was seen a challenge. He’s a fairly small man, but he didn’t get as far as he managed to without a certain devilish knack for invention. He turned his two worst opponents against each other, and after they’d beaten each other up and were suffering their solitary punishments, he caught a few lesser challengers by surprise and did a fair amount of damage - and managed to make it look like it was all their fault. By the time the real bruisers were back out in general circulation, Barton had begun calling him a rattler (“he don’t want any trouble, and trust me, you don’t want none from him either”), he had a small coterie of fans, friends among the other prison intellectuals, and most of the guards were on good terms with him. And of course, he has Balt and Cas to back him up on their respective wings. The fact of the matter is, most of these men are here for lesser charges. Gabe is one of the nastiest pikes in this particular pond, and when he says “that’s enough,” he expects the argument to be dropped. And it is.

In the grand scheme of things, he’s king of an anthill, and in any case, his authority lasts just as long as he never really needs to assert it. When it comes right down to it, he can’t do a damn thing about anything. That’s the difference between Gabe and Valjean. He knows what he can do - and what he can’t.

*******************************

Dean sees the curtains twitch in the house across the street. Damn those busybodies. He sighs, and goes up to knock at Lisa Braden’s front door. She’s expecting him.

“Your neighbor’s gonna be gossiping again,” he says.

“And hello to you too, Mr. Milton.”

She steps aside to let him in. He can smell the coffee that he is going to have to sit here and drink to give the appearance of a social visit. He can already see the letter laying on the table, and he wants to snatch it up and be gone, but the neighbors would really talk then. And Lisa herself would suspect something, something else. None of them would be right, though. He’s not courting, he’s not plotting, he’s - no, not pining either. He’s not a woman, dammit. He’s - he’s drunk, that’s what it is. He’s always emotional when he’s drunk.

Lisa places the coffee cup in front of him, and politely looks away when he decides to add whiskey from his flask instead of cream and sugar. It isn’t her place to disapprove, anyway - she’s just a substitute for the post office, and a well-paid one at that. Still, Dean stares defensively at the side of her face.

“How’s the crop going?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know, I’m not a farmer.”

Her head turns sharply his way, and he catches himself. “I mean, my family had land, before, but after the war - I didn’t go back.”

“What did you do, then?”

“Cattle herding,” he says, remembering Gabe and Balt.

“Oh really? How was that?”

He tells a few stories that aren’t his, campfire jokes cleaned up a bit for a lady, and she actually laughs. 

“That sounds fine. All that wide open space...”

“Yeah, it ain’t bad. But you get older, you know, and you want to settle down... Got back to Missouri just to find out that wasn’t in the cards. So I moved on.”

“What about Mr. Campbell? Did he herd cattle with you?”

Now, if Dean tells a lie, he’d better make damn sure he tells it exactly the same to Sam. It’s safer not to bother.

“Well, I don’t rightly know. We sort of - met on the road. Got along alright, and well, you know, I had money, and no relations to help me out, and so... I’m not a boarder, exactly, ‘cause the land’s part mine, but I’m not family, no.”

And with the way things are between them these days, everybody in town’ll believe that story.

She nods to the letter, which isn’t the first or the second or the third, and asks, “What do you write your cousin about?”

“Well - advice, mostly,” he lies. This question he’s been expecting, and prepared for.

“Advice? About what?”

“Cas used to be a farmer, you know. He knows about these things, so I ask him about what I should do.”

Her face lights up in interest. “Cas Milton a farmer? But I thought he was...?”

“What? A bank robber? That too.” His voice has gone harsh and rough, and she leans back, but Dean’s roused, now. “You know how hard it is? I didn’t. You get up and it’s colder than it should be and you think, Christ, did it freeze last night? Cause if it did, there goes months of work. You get up and it’s hotter than it should be and you think, well, damn, I hope it rains, or there goes my work - and then it rains, and the ground’s soaked, and you think, okay, now stop, stop, or the last few months are all gonna be drowned... Ain’t never just right. The weather’s against you, your back’s always against you, don’t get me started on the damn crows. Cas got his first harvest to market when he was fifteen. All alone. It sounded impressive before I tried it - now I don’t know how he managed.”

Lisa laughs awkwardly. “I suppose he got tired of that.”

Dean’s been lying through his teeth, but now he’s telling the truth. He fixes his eyes on her, or at least as far as they fix on anything these days, and tries to let her see it.

“He’s a good man. Alright, he’s done some bad things, even he’d admit that. We all have. But he’s a good man. And God, I wish he was here.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He drains the dregs of his coffee and reaches for the letter, tucking it into his jacket.

“Well, see you next time.”

“Alright. Take care, Mr. Milton.”

Everything wrong with that sentence strikes Dean at once, and he laughs on his way out. The neighbors won’t hear the bitterness in it, and they won’t see Lisa’s puzzled face closing the door behind him, and they’ll tell new stories about the two of them in town. Well, fuck ‘em.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Les Miserables was almost immediately translated into English, and by 1879, when it was 17 years old, there were four English-language translations, three of them American. It would have been readily available.
> 
> 2- While I am by no means an expert on the subject, apparently being a prisoner in America in the 1800's was WAY better than being in prison in Europe. While you were getting essentially gruel to eat in England, you did get beef in America. Stillwater Prison did in fact have a prisoner-run newspaper - Cole Younger helped found it - which exists to this day, and has actually won awards. Also, to a greater extent than their European contemporaries, Americans tended to strongly believe in the importance of the written word and the improving effect of reading the right kind of books. A library was and is an essential part of even a very small town's infrastructure, and I figure a prison, which is its own kind of town, that can swing a newspaper has a library too. Plus, there are pictures of Stillwater prison cells from around 1900 with like 15 books in them, so clearly you had access from somewhere.
> 
> 3- All that business with using twine to pass on notes between cells? I'm not sure that actually happened back then. But it's called "fishing", and it happens in modern prisons.
> 
> 4- About the animals: rattlers = rattlesnakes. The rattle is a warning, if you steer clear you will not be bitten, but get closer and you're in trouble. Pikes are a freshwater fish with a reputation for being really aggressive/sometimes cannibalistic.


	36. Chapter 36

Gabe’s tired. 

Life’s got a rhythm even in prison. The warden’s a generally well-meaning man, but he’s always trying to cut costs. Come fall, he doesn’t fire up the radiators until the ground has well and truly frozen, and by that time, the infirmary’s always started to run low on aspirin and lozenges. The end of summer means everyone’s got the sniffles. Balt laughs about it - big, bad convicts wiping their noses on their sleeves like little boys - and Gabe doesn’t think it’s funny, but he plays along. Laughing is better than the alternative.

The first year was the worst. For Gabe it was the physical walls that were the worst. He spent a long time sleeping on the hard ground, most of it by choice. His cell’s bed is actually decently comfortable, but no one ever cares if the pillow that’s smothering them is soft. Even now, there are times when he feels panicky, like he did when he was a boy sitting in front of a desk piled high with bills, but this time, there’s nowhere to run. He could either get used to it or go mad. Gabe got used to it. 

Before, there were so many things to do that Gabe never concentrated on much for long. He could invent stories or plans easily, but in his free time, Gabe preferred women and drink to books. Now, with nowhere else to go, that energy’s turned inward. He’s read every book in the library, befriended or intimidated half the prison, and, since Manning’s release, he’s the paper’s new editor. He doesn’t think he was ever that dull, but now, his mind is razor-sharp. 

Balt had a bit more trouble. He spent a few long stretches in solitary confinement, got into a few bad fights, made a few lasting enemies among the guards. The man abandoned a family and a fortune because high society was too regimented for him; prison nearly did drive him crazy. But then he, too, got used to it.

Gabe really doesn’t know what happened to Cas. It’s not as if he was ever particularly talkative, and he was always calm under pressure. There’s no way to gauge what might really be going on with him, not in the quick exchanges Gabe manages with him. All he knows is that his brother has gotten very, very quiet.

Today Gabe knows he’s got a bit of a fever. He feels chilled even through his prison-issue coat. It’s not enough to keep him in his cell, though. It’s just the usual fall fever, it’ll pass. He’d rather get out and go to work, just for the change of scenery. Maybe Balt or Cas will have something interesting to say.

They don’t. It’s another uneventful day. 

Balt has his coat on as well. In a slow moment Gabe calls out, “Got a fever?”, just to watch his brother-in-law’s eyes spark in amusement. They’re not supposed to be shouting to each other - they ought to pay attention to their work - but the guards will let it slide, because it’s Gabe.

“Probably!” Balt answers, sounding downright cheerful about it.

They both glance at Cas, but he hasn’t been paying attention, working with one hand over his mouth to muffle a cough that they can’t hear over the machines. It’s a familiar posture, one he maintained all through the summer, through the spring - come to think of it, probably since last fall. It doesn’t seem to bother Cas much, though. He looks like he’s somewhere far away, and God knows that’s hard enough to achieve in here. Gabe decides not to repeat the question. 

Gabe returns to the twine in front of him, and thinks, what good is a razor without something to cut? He’s tired of patience, he’s tired of endurance, he’s tired of doing his time. He’s feverish, and he’s bored, and he’s tired.

Not that that changes anything.

*******************************

Dean’s tired.

The harvest is in. Dean tries to barter up the price of the crop, flashes smiles left and right and sneaks sips from his flask behind their backs. Sam crosses his arms and lowers down at the townspeople, leaning next to the horses. Dean jokes extra to compensate, Sam scowls even harder, watching him work so hard to curry their favor. Somehow business gets done. Dean snaps at Sam, Sam snaps back, and when Ruby comes to ask Sam to help her lift the bags of flour and bolts of cloth she’s bought into the wagon, they’re close to another fight.

“I assume you’ll be staying in town. At least until the bar closes,” Ruby says. She sounds amused. Sam looks angry. Well, good.

“Yeah. Don’t wait up.”

“I never do,” Ruby says lightly, turning to go. Sam stands there a moment longer, working that muscle in his jaw like he does when he wants to haul off and punch something. Okay, fine, punch me, Dean thinks. Go ahead. Do it.

“C’mon, John,” Ruby says, and Sam follows her. He answers to it.

The thing is, Dean does plan on coming home late, if at all. But he won’t be in town. He’s got a bottle of whiskey in his coat, and a packet of letters in his pocket.

At first he always carried them around with him. He couldn’t chance Sam or, good God, Ruby seeing them. Besides, he liked to read them, over and over again. Then they started to pile up, there were too many, and the words started to lose some of their meaning, too, from being repeated so often. They were turning into something like the Lord’s Prayer from Sunday School, something you rattle off by heart and don’t think about anymore. Dean didn’t like that. Now he buries them in a box under some straw in the corner of the barn. Sam’s too damn lazy to ever find them there. He reads the newest one, answers it, then puts it in the box, and tries to forget about it until the next comes in. Every so often, on a day like this, he takes the best, heads out somewhere in the woods, gets as close to drunk as he can, and reads them over. It’s pretty pathetic. But hell, so is he.

It would probably be a chilly night, if it weren’t for the fire and the whiskey. He’s careful with the pages, holding on tight against breezes or a stray spark. They’re sturdy enough, cheap, rough paper, but they’ve been folded a lot, these earliest ones.

The first was a shock. It was a damn fool idea to write Cas, but once he got it into his head he couldn’t let go of it. He wasn’t stupid enough to sign it Dean Winchester, and his new alias was just about as bad - there was still a manhunt on for him, how did he know they wouldn’t send a Pinkerton agent to check him out? They’d go to Lisa’s address, sure - but wouldn’t that just be a clear sign he had something to hide? So - Lisa doesn’t know it, but he’s stolen her name for more than the envelope. He wrote that first letter as if it was coming from some sweetheart Cas had, and tried to put in as many little hints as he could that it was him, and then just hoped Cas would figure it out. It was damn awkward, signing a woman’s name, but what the hell.

It worked. Cas caught on, and as usual, beat Dean at his own game. Dean’s was this stupid, stumbling letter that didn’t say a thing he wanted and didn’t sound like any woman would, and was damn near impossible to read at any rate, between the misspellings and things he scribbled out. Maybe that’s what told him it was Dean. He answered:

“My own,

I sat for a long time just now and wondered what to call you. I decided on a name I think you would answer to. 

I’m well. So are the boys. There’s enough to eat and things are decently clean. I won’t pretend it’s pleasant, but it’s not unlivable. Our lawyer explained to us that we won’t come up for parole for quite some time, but eventually - we will. And I can hold out until then. I can hold out as long as I need to, if you keep writing me.

I have a lot of time alone in my cell. I’m supposed to be reflecting on my sins, I think. Mostly I’ve been thinking about you. It’s all connected, I suppose - you and I and why I’m here. I do have some regrets. None of them are about you.

What are you going to do now? I hope you will take care.

I love you.

Yours,  
Cas”

The first time Dean had read it, he’d laughed. Simple and straightforward, with so much under the surface that no one would ever suspect; that’s Cas, alright. The second time, he’d gotten angry at himself, at Cas, at the state of Minnesota. He’d almost screwed it up and thrown it away, but he didn’t. The third time, he - well, he wiped his eyes, that’s all. And then he sat down and puzzled out how he could tell Cas where he was and what he was doing without telling anyone else who might catch hold of the letter. At the end, he paused - then scribbled back an answer to the final line, as if Cas didn’t know he loved him too.

He really did ask Cas for farming advice. Consulted him more than the almanac, to be honest. For a while he imagined Cas coming back here one day, far in the future, but he never wanted to be a farmer. Neither did Dean. So they’d go somewhere - and do what? They’ll be old men. Dean doesn’t know. He’ll think of something when the time comes, if it ever does.

Cas wanted to know whose address he was using, whose name, but it’s not like he could come right out and ask. He used all that time to think to work himself up into jealousy. That letter’s another favorite.

“My own,

I’m locked up, and in a sense, it traps you as well. I should probably attempt to set you free. I should say, let me go, don’t brood so much on me. Find someone to love you, have a family. You said someone is helping you; perhaps there’s something there. Maybe I should be happy about that. A better man might.

I’m not that good. I’m selfish, and I won’t set you free. You said once you’d never have another, and I’m holding you to it. You’re mine, and when I get out I’ll track you down, and I will claim you, count on it. And even if I die here my ghost will come to haunt you. I know people will flirt with you, they always do. You can even flirt back, if it serves your ends. But that’s where it stops. Inside you’re mine.

Prison is prison. Nothing new except that I have a cold.

I love you.

Yours,  
Cas”

That one Dean did really almost throw away. After he read it he picked a fight with Ruby, barely nodded at Lisa in the street. Fuck Cas, that bastard, how dare he think - but after a while he got to like it. Not his suspicions, but that he’d bothered to have them. Nobody ever got jealous over Dean before. He still told Cas off for it, but he also set his mind at ease, and that was the end of their first fight by mail. Now, it’s funny to him. And it makes him flush a little, too - though maybe that’s the booze - the idea of Cas so fierce about him. It’s getting to him, maybe, all this writing as a woman.

He thought that about the next of the favorites, too. This is the one that he most fears someone will find.

“My own,

I’m sick in bed again and using the time to think of you.

There are things that everyone is attracted to in you. Your soft lips, the way you toss your head and flash your white teeth when you laugh, the way your eyes dance - well, you know your best features. I’ve seen you use them to your advantage, certainly with me. I knew early on you were dangerously charming. I love to remember you this way.

But what I like just as much, maybe more, is to remember you when you’re unconscious of your beauty. You’re so still and earnest when you’re kissed. I think you’d be less afraid if I punched you. I guess I’m a real bastard, because I love to terrify you softly.

Before you go to sleep at night, think of all the places my lips have been, and imagine them there again. They would be if I could.

I love you.

Yours,  
Cas”

Dean’s ears burned for days.

Now, to the newest one. 

“My own,

No, the cough hasn’t gone away, but other than that I feel pretty well.

I’ve been feeling pretty philosophical lately. I can’t decide whether God is punishing me or not. Prison would seem to suggest one conclusion, but then why let me keep in contact with you? Wouldn’t it be much worse if I were completely cut off from you? Or is this also a kind of punishment, keeping your memory fresh in my mind, so I know exactly what I’m missing? I don’t care, either way I’ll keep writing. I know what you’re thinking - what, religion? But without you I do live like a monk. Might as well act the part. Although the rest of my thoughts aren’t always so holy.

Did you get more for the crop this year? It didn’t rain, did it? How’s your brother doing? You never write about him.

I love you.

Yours,  
Cas”

Dean needs paper and pencil and a long, undisturbed night by an oil lamp to write Cas back. For now, he sighs - goddamn, he is really a woman - and lays back to watch the fire burn down and puzzle out his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry this particular update took so long. Life is moving at an incredible pace these days... But the end of this very long story is now in sight!


	37. Chapter 37

Gabe can’t hear Cas coughing over the noise, but he can watch him do it, and the sight’s not comforting. They took him off the machine a while ago - he couldn’t keep pace anymore - and now he sweeps the scraps off the floor to be reused. Or he should. Today he seems listless and weak, and when he coughs it bends him over and shakes his shoulders. He should be back in his cell, passed over and recorded as sick. But that makes an already boring routine unbearable, Gabe knows, and Cas doesn’t seem to understand that he can’t just order his body to be well. He’s even stubborn enough to make that work for a while, but clearly he’s fading fast. He needs to go back to bed, even he must be able to see that now. All he needs is someone to give him the last little push to see reason.

So Gabe pulls rank, so to speak. He’s not supposed to walk away from his machine - but he’s been here longer than some of these guards. Hell, he’s older than some of them. They’re not going to say anything to him, not for walking across the room to his obviously unwell brother.

When he does, Gabe has to wait out another coughing fit. He can see Cas tighten up his posture, still trying to play it off, but he can’t fight his lungs. Gabe’s ready with some sharp words for him when he stops, but he doesn’t, not for a long while. And when he does bring his hand away from his mouth, all Gabe’s words leave him.

There’s blood on Cas’ hand.

*******************************

Dean’s the kind of sober that comes when you wait out the drunk. He still smells like liquor. But if his brain is a chalked slate, then being drunk is like having the words softly wiped away with a piece of flannel - and this state is like waking up and realizing it wasn’t flannel, it was steel wool. Still can’t remember shit, but now you’ve got scratches to show. 

He’s not up early, because he never actually went down last night. He’s taken to rambling after the bar closes, walking the streets wide enough to pose little danger of stumbling into a gutter. When his head clears enough, he rides out somewhere beyond the houses. Sometimes he starts a fire and sits there all night, sometimes he feels better in the dark. He couldn’t say why. He just needs to move.

Sam’s restless, too. He brings up trains. Mentions the bank’s opening hours. Drops unfamiliar names into conversation, boys Ruby knows that he thinks would be dependable. For what, he doesn’t have to say. Dean shrugs and doesn’t answer, and Sam lets it go again. For now.

Back at the house, Dean pauses in the main room. He could go to his room and sleep the last of it off, if he wanted. The room that used to be Ruby’s is Sam’s now, too. Hell, if he’s going to have her as a fake-wife he might as well get some benefit from it, but the terrible thing is, Sam seems to actually like her. Maybe that’s just the contrast to how he acts with Dean.

Nah, he’s still not tired, Dean decides, and flops into a chair. He doesn’t make any effort to be quiet. Sam sleeps heavy these days, and if he wakes up Ruby, well, good.

The thing is, Dean’s train of thought continues, all Sam sees is Dean smiling and courting people’s affection, and he thinks less of him for it. But somebody’s gotta put on a happy face if they hope to get along in town, and sure as hell isn’t gonna be Sam. All that idealism was cute when he was twenty, but now it’s just soured into a bad damn attitude. Sam’s stubborn as a mule, standing his ground but he doesn’t know why, and all it’s gonna get him is hurt. Doesn’t he know that by now? Northfield wasn’t enough for him? No, it ain’t pleasant to go along and get along, but it’s better than the alternative. 

In a way it’s only fair. They’ve done things they shouldn’t have, Dean first and then, despite his best efforts, Sam too. People who didn’t need to die, did. You can’t get away with that forever. He used to think he’d gotten away because he wasn’t caught. Now he’s changed his mind. It isn’t prison, it ain’t as bad as a noose, but this life is a punishment in itself. Always uneasy, sneaking and lying, answering to a name that isn’t his, turning into the kind of man he’s never respected, and doing it half on purpose, because the version of himself he liked is a wanted man. It’s like Cas said a long time ago, after Alfie died - this is the punishment, to keep on living. And like the stubborn little boy who never thought he deserved a whipping, Sam doesn’t want to accept that.

Dean sighs, irritated, and reaches a hand out to the table next to him to take another sip. The glass is already to his lips before he realizes he didn’t have one.

It was right where it should be, right where it is when Dean does stay home, drinking whiskey and staring at the fire, but he wasn’t here last night, and the gasoline he drinks doesn’t leave any dried-up residue, either. What is that? He sniffs, confused, and at first he doesn’t place the scent. Something about it reminds of him of - toothaches. Doctors. Oh - it’s laudanum.

But you’d drink it in bed if you were sick. That doesn’t make sense, for it to be out here, with someone drinking it like he does whiskey. Especially because - he sniffs again - yeah, there’s a lot in there, if he can smell it like that. It’d knock you back on your ass.

Unless you were used to it. But you’d have to drink it all the time, even if you were as big as Sam.

Sam sleeps pretty damn soundly these days.


	38. Chapter 38

Healthy prisoners aren’t allowed in the infirmary, but that rule’s swiftly waived for Gabe and Balt. This isn’t the usual case.

For a while, Gabe thought if he didn’t admit it, it wouldn’t come true. He’s sure Cas thought the same thing. Then it came to a point where Gabe realized if he didn’t start accepting it, it was going to knock him sideways when it happened. It’s still difficult to bring his conscious mind to bear on “it”. The death of his remaining brother. He steels himself and repeats it, preparing. Cas is dying.

He must know it himself, by now. He asked for the things from his cell, and they indulged that request, too. They’d indulge just about anything, these days - except for the one that all of them know better to ask for. He’s never going to leave this place. His sentence is now officially life.

The thought chokes him for a minute, and Gabe has suck in air through his nose, as discreetly as he can, to avoid attracting the attention of the guard accompanying him. When Cas got his things, he sorted through them, and pulled out a fat bundle of letters sandwiched between some books.

“Burn these,” he said, calm and quiet in that way Cas always is when he’s made up his mind. Gabe had nodded, thinking he meant... later.

“Now,” Cas clarified. “And without reading them.” 

It was easy to get a guard to agree to walk Gabe down to the furnace and back. He hadn’t honestly thought as far as reading the letters, but he’s barely turned into the corridor before he realized Cas is being shrewd. The temptation is already overwhelming. Had he been allowed to take them back to his cell - had they sat there in a cryptic pile, the proof of what looks like years of private correspondence Cas has never lost a word on - he doesn’t know how long he would have held out. Not out of disrespect for his brother, not for sheer prying curiosity, but because, faced with the evidence of how very little he actually knows about his brother, he now suddenly feels the panicked need to make up for lost time.

He glances at the sender’s address on the first envelope. Lisa Braden, that’s unfamiliar, and so is the Tennessee address. They don’t know anyone there. He shuffles the first one aside to look at the second, then the third and the fourth. All identical. The guard glances skeptically at him, obviously disapproving, but unwilling to interfere. They’re all the same, every last one. Who is this woman? Who would write so long and faithfully?

No one who wasn’t a lover, Gabe realizes. When the hell did that happen? Cas never mentioned anyone - but then, that sounds about right for his temperament. Gabe wouldn’t have put it past Cas to elope, and then introduce someone. But obviously it didn’t get that far. Where would he have met her? Dean might know, wherever he is. Has she been waiting for Cas all this time? Or did she marry, is that how she got all the way to Tennessee? The answers are under his fingers.

Under the watchful eyes of the guard, Gabe tosses his brother’s secret life into the fire, untouched. It’s the first part of Cas to disappear, he thinks morbidly. Hopefully his brother thought to inform this Lisa woman.

*******************************

“No, Sam! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, right, because you’re a happy little farmer. This isn’t us, Dean, we can’t live like this!”

“Yeah, and we go down the road you want we won’t live at all! You need me to list off the people we’ve lost already?”

“No, I fucking remember, thank you, and that’s why I can’t fake a smile and just... kiss ass like you do!”

“Hey, you think this is what I want? But there isn’t any way to change it, not without making it worse. So get used to it.”

“How, by being a drunk like you?”

Dean takes a step back, a little shocked. For a minute it’s very quiet.

“Oh yeah? How about you, Sam? You gonna tell me what you’ve been drinking at night?”

It’s Sam’s turn to pause.

“Okay, yeah, I've been taking laudanum. It helps me sleep.”

“That’s one hell of a dose for a sleeping potion.”

“Yeah, because I can’t fucking sleep!” Sam snaps. “I can’t do this, and I won’t do this, not anymore. There’s a night express that passes through a couple of days from here. I’ve got some boys together, and we’re leaving tonight. You can come or not. Up to you.”

Something boils over. Dean couldn’t even tell you why, but that’s just it, he’s through, and he answers, “No, Sam, I’m not fucking coming. I’m going out. And if you go, you better not fucking come back either. Don’t lead that shit back to our door. Again.”

Sam’s fists ball up, and he just takes a deep breath through his teeth. Dean’s not sure whether he wants to keep yelling at him or swing a punch, but it doesn’t matter. He’s done. He ducks out of the house.

There should be a new letter for him at Lisa’s. It’ll probably just make him feel worse, since there hasn’t been good news from Cas in a long damn time - but you never know. Cas might be feeling better.

Lisa’s not happy to see him either. It’s - well, he doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s dark, and from the way she’s leaning away from him, he might smell. Dunno what’s wrong with a little fuckin’ sweat, though, he’s a working man. Fuck her.

He wanders back out into the woods to build a fire. There’s no fucking way he’s going home tonight.

“My own,

I would give anything not to have to write what I need to write. I don’t want it to be true. But it is. I can tell it is.

A while ago, I started bringing up blood when I coughed. I didn’t tell you, but don’t be too angry with me - I didn’t tell anyone. Eventually Gabe saw me do it. That’s why I was moved to the infirmary. Even then, I thought - well, foolishly, I thought I might get better. If force of will alone could do it, I would be better.

It’s consumption, and it’s far gone. I have to ask you not to write to me anymore. If I had any hope of recovery I would never give up the connection, but as it is - I think I will probably be dead by the time another letter could reach me, and I don’t know whose hands it would fall into. Leaving you with any hope in this case would be cruel. At this moment, I’m struggling to breathe. When you get this, you can assume I’m dead.

I’ve been thinking about what will happen after I die. I’m sure there are many who think I’m going straight below. I think for most of my life I’d have been inclined to agree with them. I didn’t worry about it, I just tried to enjoy life while I could. I enjoyed every minute of the years I was with you. But now, I don’t think I’m headed to Hell. I think being here has been a kind of purgatory on Earth. I know I did wrong, and I’m sorry for it, but I think I’ve paid. When I was boy and they tried to lynch me, I was terrified, but now, I’m not afraid. Mad as hell, yes. I don’t want to die. But not afraid of where I’m headed.

It’s you I’m afraid for, and what’ll happen to you. Not that I was useful to you in prison, but at least I knew where and how you were. I want to comfort you through my death, and I don’t know how, or how you’ll react to it. You were the one who was strong for me. I remember how badly I reacted to Alfie’s death, and I don’t want that to happen to you.

So I have something to ask you. A last request from a dying man, so don’t refuse me. I want you to take care of yourself. Don’t get into any trouble, don’t create any for yourself. Be good - whatever good in the given situation may be - and do your time in your own purgatory, and when you do die, I’ll be waiting for you. Because I will see you again, I can promise you that. Even if you don’t listen to me and I have to go down to hell and drag you back out, I will. I will see you again, have faith in that.

I love you. I have always, will always love you.

Goodbye for now.

Love,  
Cas”

Dean stares at the paper for a long time. He doesn’t think. It’s strange, because he can tell he should be thinking, should be - crying, something - but he can’t think about anything about how he can’t think. He’s just - blank. It just doesn’t - work. No. After a while he stands up, kicks dirt over his fire, and turns in the direction of home. Still nothing.

Halfway there he gasps, a sudden stitch of pain in his side like when you’ve run too fast. No, no, no, not yet, he thinks, and he grits his teeth and pushes on.

The house is dark, and for a minute Dean had forgotten about the fight, but now it all comes rushing back. Sleeping, he tells himself firmly. They’re sleeping. But there’s no one in their bedroom, no clothes in the chest of drawers, none of Sam’s cash in their hiding spot. Shit, shit, shit... Dean’s mind blanks out again. 

After a while he realizes he’s standing there with his hands on his head, like some kind of tragedy actor on the stage, playing at losing his mind. Except Dean’s is really going. Shit, shit, shit.

He reaches for his flask, but it’s empty. All the bottles are. He doesn’t think he can face going to the bar, not tonight, not like this - but he’s got to, because he sure can’t sober up with all this. He turns around and heads back out.

It’s comforting and dangerous at the same time. The warmth, the noise, the way no one’s taking any notice of him, that’s soothing, but it’s starting to bring him back to himself, let him think - and that’s bad. He can’t be thinking right now.

Everyone here is used to Dean. He drinks slow, but steady, and he doesn’t do a lot of talking. Tonight, though, he’s faster. The bartender keeps shooting him funny looks. Well, fuck him. As long as he keeps them coming, everything’ll be fine. And he does keep them coming. The thinking stops.

He’s gotta take a piss. He stumbles out the back, trips over the doorsill, and falls down in the alley. Goddamn. He lays there for a minute, until he can work out how to get back up to his feet. Hands and knees. Knees. One foot up. And second foot - there. Good. He’s muddy now. Fuck it. He’s not going back in.

Dean’s never been in this part of town before. How’d he end up here? This is the colored part of town. Well - might as well look around.

Grass. He smells grass. What - oh. He’s lying in some. His shoulder’s being shaken. 

“Hey, mister. Mister?”

“Roll him over, Victor.”

The world spins, Dean’s stomach lurches, he groans - and then whatever’s in his stomach is spilling out, burning and sour, all over his shirt and a strange pair of boots.

“Jesus!” someone says, angry. Fuck him.

“Oh, I should have known. It’s Milton.”

“Who’s that?”

“Nobody, just the town drunk.”

Dean’s eyes try to focus, but can’t. Someone’s tugging on his sleeve.

“C’mon, mister. C’mon, get up-”

“Don’t bother, cuz, he ain’t worth the trouble. You get him up he’ll go straight back to the bar. He’s just pure white trash.”

“Well, then I get the chance to be a good Samaritan, Uriel. C’mon, help me.”

Things go black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Old vocabulary reminders: consumption = tuberculosis, laudanum = powdered opium dissolved in alcohol, colored = the politically correct way to refer to anyone non-white in the 19th century.
> 
> 2- Oh hey black people! For a story that's set right after the Civil War, there hasn't been much about race in this story. That's because the story is set outside of the traditional plantation-style South. In some slave-holding places, the total number of slaves massively outnumbered the slaveholders, so although oppressed, they were the mathematical majority there and had more cultural influence. Where the Winchesters/Miltons operated, blacks are a minority, and since they never spend long in any one town, they have no real dealings with anyone other than their own families and close friends, who are white. Even in hiding, Dean and Sam are basically outside of society and what's happening with it. But here's (really generally) what's happening: the upper-class whites have managed, despite the whole defeat thing, to regain control of their society. The key is pitting lower-class whites against blacks in race and class rivalries. There's "good" and "bad" kinds of people in both races. "Good" people know their roles and stick to them - "bad" blacks are those who push too hard upward, "bad" whites are those who slip down. Whites, especially the lower-class ones in danger of slipping themselves, tended to react badly and/or violently to "bad" blacks, while blacks looked down on and avoided "bad" whites. The term would be "poor white trash", which is what they call Dean.
> 
> 3- Victor is referencing the story of the good samaritan from the Bible. A traveller is robbed, beaten up and left by the side of the road. Various high-up people, including a priest, cross to the other side of the road and pass him by, and finally a Samaritan, a member of a really despised group, comes by and helps him. So it's not just a phrase, he sees an obvious parallel there.


	39. Chapter 39

The reporters lean in. Gabe leans back, and no chains rattle. They’ve taken them off since the parole board made their decision. 

“It’s been twenty years, Mr. Milton,” the youngest says, and Gabe gets the distinct impression he’s been in prison since before the boy was born. “The world has changed. How do you think you’ll be able to handle it, life outside?”

Honestly, Gabe doesn’t know. As hated as these walls have been, they’ve been a retreat of sorts, a place where he didn’t have to plan or worry about a thing. He has a feeling things will be complicated as a free man. For one thing, he was shocked to see so many reporters turn up for their release.

His skill at deception hasn’t dulled a bit, though. Gabe smiles acidly. “We do get news, you know. There’s a telephone here, I’ve seen people speak on it. We won’t be babes in the wood, trust me.”

“What will you do?” someone else asks, and someone else, overlapping, “Where will you go?”

Balt’s noncommittal. “I don’t know yet.” He’s still trying to find out Anna’s address. Gabe had assumed that, as before, she’d stopped writing him out of anger, but kept in touch with Balt. Not until today, when it finally looked like they’d really make it out, did Gabe bother to ask Balt where they were going - only to find out he didn’t know. 

A hard-eyed man at the back asks, “What will you do for money? You won’t be tempted into crime again?”

Gabe spreads his hands wide, and says exactly what he said to the parole board. “I’m fifty-two years old, and I walk with a limp. I promise you gentlemen, if I decide to commit suicide, I’ll save you the trouble of the trial.” 

Balt laughs harshly. The rest of the room is awkwardly silent.

*******************************

If Dean had any sense of decency, he’d marry Lisa.

She certainly doesn’t expect it; hell, he’s not even sure she’d say yes. She’s never had any illusions about what they are to each other, not since he first showed up drunk on her doorstep with a wad of cash. She’s held up her end of the bargain and then some, and in return? He’s shredded her reputation pretty damn well. It seems like she’s owed a little redemption.

Dean remembers fighting with Sam, reading Cas’ letter, and then - walking, mostly, in the dark. Some of that probably happened, some of it might have been a dream. According to Lisa, he didn’t wake up for two days.

They brought Dean to her because they didn’t want to take the long trip out to the farm. She let them drop him on her sofa, and sent her boy out the next morning to tell his not-family where he was. But they weren’t there, of course, and Dean didn’t wake up, and after a while she made up a bed and called a doctor. 

The first thing Dean remembers is feeling sick. He had nothing in his stomach to bring up, but the noise brought Lisa in, and then she had to explain. That was pretty damn humiliating. He thought it was just the aftermath of a bad night, tried to brush her off and walk back home, but she wouldn’t let him do it. Doctor’s orders: stay in bed and dry out.

Listen, if you’d really have pinned him down on it, Dean could have told you he was drinking too much. He’s not an idiot. He just figured when he needed to, he’d stop. And at first, well, it was pretty easy. Sure, he couldn’t keep a damn thing down, his head throbbed like it never has in his life, he soaked his sheets in sweat, but he was alright with that. The doctor told him he was in a dangerous situation, and he nodded like he was worried, and inside he was grimly pleased. Who’d have thought he’d die so quick?

But this ain’t a damn romance novel, and it turns out you don’t die just because the boy who used to be the fucking apple of your eye turns rotten and leaves you behind, and you don’t die even when your - alright, God damn it, your lover - does. You don’t ever die of grief. Not even when you wake up shivering from nightmares of worms getting into coffins in cold Minnesota ground, and turn your face into a pillow already clammy with sweat and pray to die that way. You just keep right on breathing against your will.

Instead of dying, Dean got better. And that’s when it got really hard. By now he can look back and wince at himself, he can tell, from the way he fucking aches for a drink, that if he starts again he’d end up in another ditch, but so what? Why bother with clean living when everyone you had to live for is gone or dead? He gets into these arguments with himself sometimes, about whether it’s suicide if you do it slow. It’s just a beer. People drink all the time and nothing happens. But he can almost see Cas shake his head, angry with him or maybe worse, disappointed - and as much as Dean wants to wipe away the image, he wants to hang on to it more. He never does get that drink.

It helps that Lisa’s cleared every trace of the stuff out of her house, even the medicinal bottles. They never really talked about it, but there was nothing for Dean at the farm, and Lisa never asked him to leave. One day he offered her enough to cover room and board, and she took it.

Her boy, Ben, gets into fights at school about it. Of course there’s nothing wrong with taking in a boarder, if you’ve got to make ends meet, but the town’s been convinced there’s more between the pair of them for a long time now. If they’d just go ahead and marry, that would be the end of it, but puzzling out why they never have, that’s a never-ending topic. Dean’s the mysterious stranger, after all. Maybe he’s got a crazy wife locked up somewhere, who knows? 

One day Ben comes home angry and bruised, and he lingers for a minute on the porch with Dean, putting off the fuss his mother’ll make when she sees him. Dean clears his throat awkwardly.

“Anyone ever teach you to throw a punch?”

The kid looks at him like he doubts Dean has anything useful to share. “No.”

So Dean shows him. He teaches him to shoot, too, takes the kid hunting and fishing, tells him funny stories from his own childhood. And most of the time, they get along alright, until Ben forgets himself and asks about something that happened after Dean learned to shave, and Dean snaps, “None of your damn business.” It’s probably best that the boy not learn too much from him anyway. Look at what Dean managed to do to his brothers.

And so they go on, one day after the next, and what looked impossible seems like it’s going to happen, in spite of all Dean’s doubts. He’s just - living. In a house of cards, sure, balanced against Lisa’s improbable pity and Ben’s wary toleration and the town’s lazy grudge, but it just never seems to collapse. Dean’s alright. He’s always been alright, he always will be. It’s the story of his life: what floats to the top? It ain’t cream.

Sam abandons his alias pretty quickly. The papers instantly pick up the story, but it’s different this time. He’s got a gang, it seems like, but no reporter ever bothers to list their names. They’re nobodies, kids Sam seems to pick up and discard every few jobs, always getting arrested or shot. The story isn’t what they’re doing, it’s not who they are, it sure as hell doesn’t have any politics behind it anymore. The story is Sam, just Sam.

They say he shot a member of his own gang in cold blood, they say he’s paranoid and unpredictable. They say he’s got a girl who’s meaner than he is. That one, Dean believes. Sometimes Dean gets to thinking he should do something about it. Sam’s getting too old for this shit. But Dean has no idea where to find him, and he’s pretty sure if he did Sam wouldn’t listen. He never did.

The day he finds out, he’s been out hunting with Ben. The boy always needs help. He's more man than boy, if Dean's honest - Dean had killed plenty of men at his age - but Ben never shoots anything. He just can’t seem to stop wincing and tensing up before he fires a gun. Dean isn’t real sure how to feel about it. One day he’s going to have to toughen up that boy, for his own good. But what the hell. Give it a little more time.

Lisa’s sitting in the kitchen, and her head jerks up as they come in. She smiles too bright and wipes at her eyes, and even Ben can see that’s trouble.

“Ben, honey, will you give me some time to speak to Mr. Milton alone?”

“Why?” he says, suspicious.

“You heard your mother,” is Dean’s sharp answer. Ben scowls, but he goes.

Lisa doesn’t try to say anything to soften it. She just picks up the newspaper and hands it over. The story’s in the fat black letters they save for when they want to scream something especially exciting, and this definitely qualifies. Sam Winchester, the outlaw, is dead. There’s a picture, too, the long broad body of the man Lisa knew as Mr. Campbell barely fitting into the coffin they’ve got him propped up in.

Dean’s stuck on the coffin. He knows from experience, now, that it’ll hit him in a minute here, and he ought to get somewhere quiet before it does. But for now, he’s a blank, and all he can think about is how the goddamn cheap bastards wouldn’t spring for a bigger coffin.

His feet take him into his room, and his hands take the paper with him. He sits on the edge of his bed and reads it all, very slowly.

Sam was back home, in Missouri. His murderer was a member of his own gang. He was shot in the back. The governor himself pardoned the killer within two hours. Dean absorbs these facts calmly.

His hand finds its way inside his jacket, to the pocket stretched wide by the weight of the pistol he’s kept there since he was eighteen. Not the same jacket, not the same pistol - but the weight, that’s been a constant. It’s a Colt .45, an old one - he can’t remember who he took it off, but he’s had it with him since before Northfield. The metal’s so battered and scratched that it’s almost a kind of polish of its own. There’s nothing on it but the serial number, the grip’s plain solid wood. This is not a gun designed for mantelpieces. It’s a tool - ugly, but useful. Kinda fitting. Dean weighs it in his hand, and waits for the looming wave of pain to hit.

It pushes him off the bed. It tucks away that pistol again, peels up the floorboard and takes out the remains of his cash, carries him out of the room, and brings him up short against Lisa, hovering on the edge of tears in the hall.

“I can’t stay here,” he says.

She nods, not surprised. “I never figured you would. Be careful.”

It’s an empty promise, but he makes it. “I will be. And, listen... thanks. I’m sorry about - well, all this.”

She shakes her head. “You helped me, I helped you. We’re even.”

The next wave hits, and Dean’s swept forward, wrapping his arms around the only person still living who doesn’t hate or fear him. Startled, Lisa stiffens, then slowly raises a hand to pat him on the back.

“Goodbye.”

Dean goes west without thinking about it. All he can think of is home. He’s going home.

He stays in hotels every night, still signing Milton, not quite ready to give it up. He makes no other effort to hide himself. It’s the first time he’s ever crossed the Mississippi in daylight. The sun on the water is blinding.

And after a while, he finds himself in Jefferson City. The capital’s bustling, but no one looks his way. There are too many lines in his face to make him recognizable now. He ties his horse up right outside of the little brick Capitol, and then, to his own shock, walks all the way in. He’s finally stopped by a little man at a desk in the entrance to the governor’s office.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you have an appointment?”

“No.” He steps around the desk, and the secretary jumps up.

“Now, wait! Who do you think you are?”

“Dean Winchester.” 

The man pales and lets him go by. Dean can hear him running for help behind him. He’d better make this quick.

The governor looks up from his papers when Dean swings the door open.

“Can I help you?”

“No, sir.”

For a minute the man just looks at him expectantly, and Dean pauses, all the momentum gone out of him. Then another wave hits, and he goes on.

“My name’s Dean Winchester.”  
 The governor’s eyes widen in shock, but before he can say anything Dean continues.

“I got a dealt a bad hand, governor. I have been hunted for thirty-five years, have literally lived in the saddle, have never known a day of perfect peace.” The bitterness swells in his throat, and Dean swallows. “It was one long, anxious, inexorable, eternal vigil. And I’m tired, governor. I’m tired. I give up.”

Dean pulls out his pistol, and the man flinches. Then he tosses it onto his desk. The governor doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, but finally he puts his hand on it, drags it over to him. 

Dean laughs, feeling a little crazy, and watches the governor freeze in fear even as he can hear running feet coming back down the corridor for him. For a minute he feels young and cocky again, and he stands up a little bit taller to explain.

“Governor, I haven’t let another man touch my gun since 1861.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- This chapter abandons the timeline of the real gang, which we have followed pretty closely up until now, in order to compress things that happened over like 20 years. Also the way the surrender goes down is pretty much entirely made up. In story time, we are now in 1896.
> 
> 2- Finally comes the quote from Frank James from the description - with a teensy bit of editing to fit my timeline.
> 
> 2- I don't want to put up a specific number of chapters yet in case I change my mind, but we are about 3 chapters out from the end. Almost done!


	40. Chapter 40

“Ooooooh!” the girl giggles, and Gabe shoots her a wink. She shudders and ducks behind her boyfriend, who sticks out his bony chest. 

“Watch it, old man!”

Gabe drops the mask. The boy freezes, and Gabe offers him a ticket without breaking eye contact. The kid takes it and hurries off, before his girl can see the chill that just went through him.

If it weren’t for those little bastards, life in the theater would be perfect. Gabe loves just about everything about it. The hours are good, late nights and late mornings. The false shine of it appeals to him too, all gilt and sequins and rhinestones. The rhythm before the doors open feels familiar, the build of backstage excitement spreading into the audience humming in their seats and then peaking in a crescendo of light and sound. He likes the variety of the shows, too - family-friendly now, at the matinee, but more fun at night, when Gabe always slips in to watch the final fan dance. Even the smell of the place is nice in a strange way: dust, well-oiled wood, greasepaint, the faintly burnt smell emanating from the Kliegls. But most of all, he likes the people, freaks and funnymen, women who can hold their liquor and men who know how to strike a backroom deal, singers and shooters and strippers, interesting people. Gabe’ll take interesting over good any day.

Gabe’s a ticket-taker, though, not exactly the most dignified job in the world but one of the only ones appropriate for a fifty-something man who can’t stand for long. The banner over his head says, “Get your ticket punched by Gabe Milton!” and you know what, that little gimmick works. People come to gawk. If they were all pretty girls half his age he’d be perfectly fine with that, but usually they’re accompanied by their little bastard boyfriends, eager to look tough. 

Thing is, Gabe might not be on the stage but he’s a bit of an actor too. He smiles and winks at the women, he avoids eye contact with the men, and sometimes he plays up that limp of his. At best he’s reformed, at worst just an old dog, but he’s harmless. Most of the time, he really is. He doesn’t wish harm on many people. But these city boys who’ve never touched a gun, who don’t know or care who he is except as someone they can gloat in their supposed power over - they piss him off. So for them, Gabe drops the mask, and lets them see how very, very little it would bother him to see them dead.

Even now, older than he ever really figured he would be, Gabe’s fighting an enemy - the future. The world moved on without him, and he’s got nothing now to trade on but his past, that short charmed span of time when he was unstoppable. Gabe is an old man now, a weak man, and he’s under no illusions about his scope for action. After all, he used to be strong. He used to decide what happened to people; now they decide what they’ll do with him. That’s the way of the world. But he can go down fighting.

Sometimes it seems as if Gabe’s spent half his life trying to die right.

When the policemen approach, Gabe’s first thought is, of course. They’ve changed their minds. He just sits, and lets them come.

It’s the hats that confuse him. They’re holding them in their hands, not something anyone’s ever really done around Gabe before. He’s probably old enough to be their father, but they’re not green, either. They look tired and grave. Gabe doubts he could rattle them by looking them in the eye. 

“Gabe Milton?”

 He just points at the sign over his head. “Who else?”

One of them looks down. The other says, “We’re sorry to inform you that your brother-in-law is dead. Shot himself about an hour ago.”

*******************************

It wasn’t until Dean was actually behind bars that he realized he could be hung. Or fried, more likely - he hears they’ve got a chair for that now. It kept him up all night. Not worrying, exactly - more like arguing.

Cas said he wasn’t to hurt himself, well, he won’t. He’s not doing a damn thing but telling the truth if he confesses, and besides, what better way to pay for his wrongs? They don’t call it a penitentiary for nothing, right? He’s sorry. He’ll pay. Let society decide what to do with him, if they’re so keen on it. If they decide to kill him, well, that’s their choice, not his.

It doesn’t ring true, and he tries saying it another way, then another. No good. He’s lying.

That’s not how trials work. He’s got to judge himself, first. If he acts one way, they’ll pity him even if he says he’s guilty - another, and he can swear he’s innocent and go to the chair. No matter what he does, he’s gonna be pushing them one way or another. He can’t get out of this now.

He hasn’t said anything yet, got all flustered and said he’d wait until they found him a lawyer, but tomorrow he’ll have one. So he’s gotta make a decision tonight.

Instead, all he can think about is Sam. All the way here like a fucking sleepwalker, and now he’s hung up on his brother. Sam would hate this, he’d be so damn pissed, but he’d have a plan for sure, and a backup plan behind it. And Dean’d follow along, and try to pretend it was his idea after all...

No. He is not fucking crying on a jail mattress in Jefferson City. Not doing it.

Maybe it would be better if he could just figure out when they went wrong. Dean’s crying for a cute baby and a tough kid and an impressive man that he loved more than life itself, but mostly he’s crying for a brother he lost a long time ago.

After a while, a calm settles over him. He rolls over in the dark and realizes that his eyes have adjusted to the dark. He can just make out the bars. Cas lived like this for years. It feels comforting, like maybe if Dean feels what Cas felt, he’ll be closer to him. When his eyelids start to droop, Dean lays himself on his back, and crosses his arms over his chest. He pretends that none of this matters anymore, because he’s a corpse, and this narrow bed is his coffin. It lulls him to sleep.

He wakes up choking on dirt. It’s pitch black, the air is bad, and when he tries to shift his arms and feels wood, he understands. Buried alive. Well, inconvenient, but hell, he’s on the right track. He decides to sit tight until it counts.

That lasts about thirty seconds. He gasps, but there’s nothing left in the air for him, and he starts kicking and punching, desperate to get out. His nails ache with all the dirt he’s driving into them, clawing up, and then, dear God, there’s light! He sucks in a breath -

And wakes up. 

And laughs, because if that ain’t a sign he doesn’t know what is. Then fights tears, because he doesn’t know who sent it to him. There’s too many people he knows in heaven. Then laughs, because he wants to live, and then nearly sobs because he’s too tired for that to feel like a good thing for long - and then it all becomes a blur, a fucking hilarious awful mess that has him nearly choking, trying to keep two different sounds down at once. 

When he can, he looks up at the ceiling, and whispers to everybody, “Okay. Fine. Innocent it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Gabe's working at a burlesque theater, which was at the moment kind of transitioning from a vaudeville type thing to the more striptease oriented kind.
> 
> 2- The fan dance is a striptease thing Sally Rand popularized in the 30's, but she wasn't the inventor, so we're assuming they were around earlier. If you can't picture one, just google her and watch.
> 
> 3- Kliegls are what people who do movies call "Klieg lights", but I used to work in theaters and they were never anything but Kliegls to us, which is the actual brand name. They were the first electrical stage lights, and didn't come out until a touch later than I've put the story, so it's really more personal nostalgia, but what the hell. They're just a really primitive way to throw a bunch of light in the general vicinity of an area. And like all theater lights before LEDs came on the scene, they're hotter than hell, and they smell like ozone and burning in part because they actually burn off dust.
> 
> 4- "To get your ticket punched" used to mean "to be killed". So the banner has a joke in it, and I didn't come up with either - that was Frank James' real job for a while.
> 
> 5- Okay, you knew we had to get down to two, right? If it perhaps seems like I've gone into overkill, let me just say - Balt has been based on Jim Younger, who really did shoot himself about a year after being released from prison. I mean, the hits just kept coming in real life, so...
> 
> 6- Missouri has never used the electric chair, but Tennessee still does (as a backup option). Dean's not clear on that distinction.


	41. Chapter 41

It starts small.

One of the ushers saw the policemen lead Gabe numbly away. Word spread like wildfire; when he returned to work the next day, he found a “help wanted” sign on his booth. They’d all assumed he was arrested.

In the year that Gabe worked there, no one had ever dared to ask him a direct question. He was sociable to all of them, and they were cordial right back, with the same kind of pride that he noticed among prisoners and guards alike. But there was a gap between them, a disconnect between what they knew, or think they knew, about him, and what he doesn’t understand about them. 

He couldn’t just waltz back in and demand his job back without an explanation, however. Gabe told them the police came just to say his brother-in-law is dead. Suicide, he added, and he thought it would only widen the gap - but one of the dancers nodded. 

“My father did that. His bank in Illinois failed last year...”

A black-clad stagehand agreed, “It happens.”

It was soothing and insulting, and Gabe’s not sure whether he spoke up to bolster the feeling of acceptance, or destroy it.

“It wasn’t that. He’s - he was trying to get in touch with my sister. His wife. Someone back home said she left with some guy, ten years ago or so... That’s all we know. It took a toll on him.”

And someone asked a question, and someone asked another, and they kept nodding, and before Gabe knew it he’d told them everything he knew about his sister, a handful of memories pitifully small when he takes them out and looks at them. From there it seemed natural to speak about his father, to test how many of his memories feel true and how many are nothing but second-hand remembrances from his local legend. He couldn’t mention Chuck without mentioning his oldest sons, the brothers who’ve faded into opposing sides of a coin. There’s no pain left in speaking of Luke and Michael, not after so long, and so his head is clear enough to catch someone muttering, “Just like Cain and Abel.”

“No, not at all. Not unless they’re both Cain - ready to kill each other. Or maybe both Abel - they both died, after all. If you’re looking for God to come down clear on one side, I’m sorry to disappoint you. It ain’t that easy.”

They didn’t all believe him, but they all listened. And the next day, someone asked something else.

He tells them about his brief cowboy career, about riding to California, about the rhythms of prison life. He describes the orderly world he was a boy in, and some of the war as he fought it, less about regiments and generals than blood feuds and raiding parties. He makes them gasp and laugh and bite their lips, and he wonders why he ever kept silent so long. 

Gabe is not the strong, dangerous man he once was. But survival, if you do it long enough, seems to be counted as a kind of valor of its own, and when he unravels his long and tangled past for them, they listen, and they look at him with the kind of respect he used to earn with a gun. Gabe is old and weak, but if he does it right, he can make them forget it. He can go back into his memories, call his old self back to life, and he can take other people there with him.

Eventually, he finds himself telling them about how good-humored Garth was. He describes Adam Winchester for them, bold but guileless, practically an innocent. He gives Benny back his name. He remembers Ellen and Jo and Jess, a bitter story that rouses the entire circle of listeners to anger. And of course, he mentions Bobby, dead these many years of - who would have guessed it? - old age.

Late one night, Alfie comes back to him for the crowd. He’s eight and sitting on the porch, waiting up; then he’s a young man - an overgrown baby, now Gabe looks back - and they’re laying him in the ground. One of the dancers cries.

Cas and Balt have been in these stories. None of them make any sense without them, the two most major figures in his life. But it’s nothing more than “my brother told me...” or “my brother-in-law came with me...” Those are two ghosts he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to see again.

Besides, who would he describe? Balt was a womanizer when they met, and that’s how Gabe’s always thought of him. Oh, sure, he was obviously fond of Anna, but to do what he did... Gabe had no idea Balt was that crazy about his sister. And which Cas should he call up for them? The little boy who followed him around? The farmer, the fighter? The dying convict with his stash of secrets to burn? How does he know who Cas was, anyway? The people closest to him are the ones he saw least clearly. In the end, he tells his listeners only what they did, their parts in the story as he saw it. It’s the only thing he can really be sure of.

Everyone asks about the Winchesters, but Gabe’s neither a fool nor a traitor. He’s been following Dean’s trial with interest, and he knows that if he starts telling people where Dean was when, he’ll only be bolstering the prosecution’s case. Perhaps that’s what Dean wants. It certainly seems suicidal to turn himself in. 

Running down the list of the people that are gone, the places that have changed, and the things that have almost been forgotten, though, Gabe has realized there is only one other member of his world still standing. He has stories that match up, and maybe some that fill in holes in what Gabe remembers. If they were to tell them to each other, maybe he’d understand it all a little better. That alone is reason to hope Dean, who is pleading innocent, makes it through. And if he did, and he wanted to talk about the past, maybe they could even get paid. After all, look how well Buffalo Bill’s done trading on past glories.

*******************************

Dean’s lawyer is white-haired, and skinny in the dried-up way old men get. One of the first things he says is, “Dean Winchester, I’ll be. Never thought I’d see you in the flesh.” He chuckles dryly. “Kinda prayed I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well - I don’t do that anymore.”

“Or ever, you mean, since you’re innocent,” he answers smoothly.

“Oh. Right.”

The lawyer fixes Dean with an exasperated look.

“Listen, Mr. Winchester. I may not know your life story, but I remember the old days as well as you do, and I think I can judge you pretty well. You’re no risk to society these days, and as a law-abiding citizen myself, I’d rather not pay your room and board in prison. But the jury isn’t going to understand things the way I do, so I’ll thank you to be a little less honest when you get on the stand.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good. You do that, and I’ll get you off.”

“What, totally?”

“You don’t know me either, Mr. Winchester, but I’ve got a reputation of my own around these parts. I’ve had a long, long career, and there aren’t many losses in it.”

Seeing him now, Dean understands why. His lawyer’s voice changes in front of an audience, slipping on a twang like a jacket. He paces when he talks, surprisingly quick for his age, and he talks about Dean like he knows him, like he had a front-row seat to his life, and like all the jury did too.

“Now, it’s hard for Mr. Winchester to give his current place of residence without exposing those who’ve given him comfort in his distress. But I’m sure you gentlemen are all familiar with his old home. I’m sure many of you have headed out past old Mr. Collier’s place with a dog to hunt in the underbrush out there. I remember doing so with some of your fathers, before these old legs of mine tired out. It’s a nice pastime for a fall day, ain’t it? And of course if a younger boy got tired of the hunting we’d send him up to the top of the hill, out of the way for the shooting, and he’d play around the foundations of a house that used to be there. Those stones have been castles and forts and all manner of things, haven’t they? Yes, we think of Mr. Winchester’s land fondly. But this neighbor of ours, we don’t know him so well. He hasn’t been around these parts in a long time. He was chased out...”

Dean was there. He knows it didn’t happen the way this man tells it. Big things happened around him, sure, but he wasn’t swept up in them. He always had a choice. He wishes this man was right, that he had a pure heart and good intentions, but he didn’t always. If he could go back and do it over, there are things he’d do differently. There’s others he wouldn’t. But he lived his life and now he has to live with it, and that’s just the way it is. 

Dean doesn’t feel innocent. He doesn’t feel forgiven, either. But since he pleaded innocent, things have still felt different. 

For years he’s had his mind on the dead, repeating all his memories to himself, chasing after every detail in case he loses one, and it was hard, like trying to catch fish with his bare hands. He reached all the time, and they slipped between his fingers, and the loss was heavy on him, but hey, at least it was something. He was always ready for that last jump across the barrier line, the end, but until it came, he had that weight.

Now, Dean’s sure not afraid of dying. But saying he’s innocent, it’s like saying, “Not yet,” and as hard as it was to do, it’s changed things. He hasn’t been reaching lately, grabbing at memories of people that have been gone too long. And wouldn’t you know it, now that he’s stopped chasing them, they’ve been coming back to him. 

It isn’t like he thought it might be if he could remember right, he doesn’t see them in front of him, bright as life, he doesn’t even see them washed out and ghostly. It’s like being in camp at night, knowing they’re around you, feeling them there, but not being able to see them. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, and he thinks if he told anyone they’d lock him up in the looney bin, and yeah, it’s a little creepy sometimes. But Dean eats with his elbow tucked in like Sam’s still eating next to him, and he rolls over in bed at night and he swears he can hear Cas breathing. It’s like he’s carrying them around with him. And that heavy, empty feeling, it’s gone. Maybe it just means he doesn’t have long left, but he’s got a little bit, and he thinks his ghosts want him to enjoy it. He thinks it’d be okay to do that.

On the day Dean’s acquitted, they take him back to the jail to collect his things and avoid the press. He sits in the warden’s office and drinks sweet tea instead of whiskey until it’s dark. And then, back in clothes Lisa mended and his old gun at his side, he heads out into the night - and almost dies of fright, cause if that ain’t a real live ghost he’s not sure what’s going on.

Gabe Milton steps out of a shadow and holds a hand out to him. “Congratulations, Winchester.”

What the hell. Dean takes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - There was a financial panic in 1896 which included bank failures. (They happened regularly throughout the 1800's.) Without any kind of social safeguards, losing your life savings did really use to drive people to suicide.
> 
> 2 - Cain and Abel is the Bible story about the bad seed who kills his brother and is then punished by God. 
> 
> 3 - Buffalo Bill was an Army scout who later headed the greatest Wild West show in the country, which was active and popular at this time. The days of the frontier were famously declared to be over in 1893, and there was already a huge Western nostalgia going on. Frank James and Cole Younger also really did go on a speaking tour in their later years, cashing in on the same nostalgia.
> 
> 4 - There is not one Southern accent, there are many. The Appalachians sound absolutely nothing like the coast. Especially in the past, when there was less influence from things like radio and TV and travel, your accent told people your class as well. A "twang" is not a high-class accent. And there are plenty of Southerners who, consciously or unconsciously, shift the amount that they speak in an accent to fit the situation they're in.


	42. Chapter 42

Despite my father’s considerable reservations about their personal characters, even he couldn’t deny the story they told was a good one. Maybe it was skill; certainly they were practiced at telling it. More likely, though, I think it was hearing it from the men who were there. Even across a concert hall, barely alluding to the disastrous Northfield raid, leapfrogging across decades to pick and choose from the lightest and least sensitive of their memories, there must have been a power to it, for them to bring in the crowds like they did. 

I can’t be sure. I never did catch their show. But I’d wager they never told it to ticket-holders as they did that night, driven by a slow-burning anger my father kept stoking with sharp comments, elbows on their knees as they faced him across the hearth. In a way it was like watching a poker game, or maybe a chess match, my father with his moral certainties and these two old outlaws with an ocean of dark experience to challenge them. If they had been attempting to shield my young mind before, they were through with that now, and they certainly didn’t take any account of the woman in the room. It was shocking, bloody, frightening - everything I could have dreamed. And most stunning of all, my father took it all in and didn’t budge an inch. I’d never seen him so bold. I was riveted.

Dean Winchester, the outlaw who could joke while he trained a gun on you, the hard-drinking ladykiller with the devil-may-care smile, lowered his eyes to my floor and described looking out the door of a Northfield bank and seeing his half-brother’s blood spread across the street in a voice kept even with suspicious care. My mother made a sympathetic noise, but my father took no notice. Winchester spoke of his other brother too, the most infamous of them all, looming, bloodthirsty Sam Winchester - but this version was neither as grand or as terrifying as the one in the dime novels. To his older brother tell it, he was just a stubborn, impulsive boy who took a wrong turn, a case of strength warped by pain. My father crossed his arms and said impassively, “That doesn’t change the fact that he killed innocent people.”

The thinking man’s outlaw, Gabriel Milton, a son of the fabled Old South fallen from grace, the one a reporter once said could lie to Satan himself, spoke in short, clipped sentences about being run to ground in a Minnesota ravine and resolving to go down fighting. My mother put her hand across her mouth, and I bit excitedly at a finger, but my father only lifted his eyebrows. Milton described the sounds of pain his brother-in-law made when he was dragged to his feet, and my father just shook his head. “Yes, but they didn’t kill you. They left it to the law to decide. And that’s more mercy than you would have shown them.”

Eventually, they touched briefly on the years they’d spent apart. Milton’s legs twitched when he talked about the closeness of prison walls, as if he was still having to fight the urge to move. Winchester alluded vaguely to years lost as a drunk. My father only nodded, as if something had been confirmed to him.

There was a quiet moment, and then Milton cleared his throat.

“My brother died in prison, you know.”

“He deserved to,” my father responded.

It was like he’d touched two wires together. Both outlaws came to fiery life.

“You don’t know the first thing about that kid. He was steadier and stronger than I ever was. When I came back after the war he’d tried to build a house, was growing some vegetables, taking care of our sister and brother...”

“I saw your land out there. Hard work, ain’t it? I know. If you died tomorrow, could your boy figure it out alone? Cause that’s what Cas did.”

“And if I’d never come back, that’s probably still what he’d be doing today. But I was his older brother, and I brought back a lot of money, and he admired me...”

Winchester shakes his head. “Naw, Gabe, you know better than that. Cas hated farming, he wasn’t meant for that. He tried to teach himself Latin... he was smart. He could have been a, a professor.”

“Or a soldier. A real one.”

“Yeah, maybe. Toughest man I ever met.”

“He had a scar around his neck, you know that? He was halfway lynched when he was just a kid. They were trying to get him to tell them where I was. And he wouldn’t talk to them. He looked pretty innocent with his collar buttoned up, but when he took off his shirt... they cut him up too, and he took a bullet from a Pinkerton that left a ridge on his left ribs -”   
“Right.”

“What?”

“Right ribs. It broke the bone. I was there,” Winchester added, glancing to us as if he’d just remembered we were there.

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

“He never even yelled. He just gritted his teeth and took it.”

“He was so quiet. You never really knew what was going on in his head...”

“Not at first, not. But he could be funny too, if you were listening. And sometimes he was a fucking frustrating bastard, but then when you didn’t expect it, he’d be sweeter than you ever expected... And he was calm. No matter what happened, no matter how bad it got, if you were around him, you could get a little peace.”

Maybe it was Winchester’s tone, maybe it was the calming presence he’d just evoked, but Milton was silenced, looking sidelong at him. Even my father’s rejoinder was subdued.

“Well, maybe you’re right. He might have had good qualities, if you were on the right side of his gun. But he did some terrible things.”

Milton bristled, but Winchester spoke up first, this time filled with all the fervor of a revival preacher.

“I never said he didn’t. I know he did, just like I did, like a lot of people have. He’d have been the first to admit it. He told me once that living with that was his penance. And he did his time, and he finished it earlier than us, so what does that tell you? The bad’s been paid off, and that leaves only the good, and there was a hell of a lot of good.”

“So where does that leave you? You’ve never been punished.”

Winchester leaned back and crossed his arms, and suddenly he looked very tired. “Trust me, I have. But you know what? I ain’t been an angel, but I ain’t the devil either. I still believe one day I’m gonna get some peace.”

My mother suddenly piped up with the first words she’d said in a long while, her tone hovering between sympathy and disapproval. “With that woman...?”

“Lisa?” Milton prompted, and Winchester shot him a sharp look of surprise.

“No. Maybe I have to die first, who knows. All I know is, I have faith in that.” He flashed a sudden bright smile, and for a moment, I thought I saw the dime novel legend - and then he settled back into his chair and his age.

My father frowned. “So you admit you’re not just victims of circumstance. You do believe in right and wrong?”

Milton smirked and stared into the air, quoting, “You know as well as we do that right, as the world goes, is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.”

Maybe he thought a simple farmer wouldn’t catch the reference, but my father did a lot of reading in the evenings. It was unfamiliar to me, of course, but I’ve had it memorized ever since. Even at my age, I’m still puzzling over the exchange.

“Thucydides. And do you see yourselves as the strong? Or the weak?”

“What do you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and so Gabe finally figures it out.
> 
> This is the first fanfiction thing I've ever written. It was an experiment to see how I liked it/how others liked. I learned, a, it's HARD to follow through, b, you very quickly become addicted to praise, c, I really, really, like the idea that other people like something I write. If you liked it, can I ask a favor? Would you give me really specific feedback about what you did or didn't like about it? Especially anything that you didn't like - I would loooove to improve.
> 
> Also, I was thinking about writing a very different story where no one dies and there are witches and sarcasm, but... a, it's HARD to follow through, b, I am now addicted to praise, and c, I would really like someone else to like it. So if that sounds like something you would be interested in, let me know! :)


	43. Appendix: Anna's Viewpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the end of the story yet... don't read this.

The year before the world fell apart, most of Anna’s friends thought, and talked, and giggled about boys constantly. They were only a few years away from an engagement, after all, the defining moment in a woman’s life. A good man would set you up with a fine house, a respectable name, a family, maybe even the chance to travel. But you had to consider carefully. A poor choice meant a life sentence, served out next to a drunk or a gambler, a wife-beater or a philanderer. Either way, what came next was children. Nobody really knew how they happened - men seemed to, or her brothers were doing an excellent job of chuckling knowingly as if they did - but you found out when you got married, and then the babies would start coming. It was dangerous, Anna knew that much. Her mother and stepmother in the graveyard attested to that. Frankly, it was frightening.

If you never chose, though - or if you were never chosen - you lived a long life, but you ended it alone, trying to starve respectably. Worse still, if you laughed too loud, stayed out too late, let a handsome man get too close, then... well, it wasn’t decent to talk about what happened to you then. Secretly, Anna thought maybe you had a little fun, for the first year or two - then you were ugly, used-up, ruined forever. Marriage was a risk, but not to be married, that was much worse.

For most people, that is. Anna was lucky. She had a well-off father, and five brothers to carry on in his name after him. Even if she never married, Anna would always be safe and comfortable, cared for in the house on the top of the hill. So while her classmates fluttered and fretted about boys, Anna quietly resolved to herself that she would not marry for gain, or esteem, or security. She had men enough to give her those things. She would only take that risk for passion, or never at all.

Well. They say God laughs when you make plans. Two years later, her father and two oldest brothers were dead, and one morning Cas came running up to her on his skinny little boy legs, all out of breath, and said, “Gabe’s run off.”

Gabe was hardly more than a boy himself. He didn’t understand the business that had fallen on his shoulders. It had overwhelmed him. And so, gallant noise about joining the Cause or not, Anna understood that Cas had said it right the first time. Gabe ran away. And he left Anna to fill his place.

Didn’t she feel the same way? Wasn’t it twice as overwhelming to Anna, who’d been taught embroidery instead of Latin, cookery instead of arithmetic? But Cas was eleven, Alfie only three. She couldn’t abandon them. And so, though she wasn’t sure how she could possibly manage, Anna was forced to try.

There was no one great moment in the next two years that changed her. There were a hundred small ones. The first time the overseer winked at her, and she realized there was no one to stop him if he caught her alone. The first time a business contact of her father’s put out his hand, and instead of laying hers upon it to be kissed, she offered it angled, to be shaken. The first time she picked up a gun. It was gradual, like the slaves that slipped away by twos and then by tens, but by the time the order of eviction came around, Anna wasn’t overwhelmed, not anymore. 

The road was choked with traffic, refugees pouring out of hundreds of square miles of sudden no man’s land. Sometime that evening, as Cas sat up front holding the reins, she looked at his back, surprised at how he’d grown when she wasn’t looking, and thought, I can take some credit for that. Then she looked down at Alfie, asleep in her lap, his eyelashes fluttering in response to his dream, and a completely different kind of pride seized her heart. I’m the only reason he’s alive, she thought, I fed him, dressed and soothed and carried him, and I would scratch out the eyes of anyone who tried to hurt him. Look at how perfect this child is. And he’s mine. 

Anna never did marry a man to give her a house and a family. She earned those on her own. In all the long years she lived on the ruins of her father’s place, she never gave up the fight, trying to rebuild the place, pull the family back together. No brother or suitor ever tried to lay claim to Anna’s land, her security and her power to make decisions. That seemed to be the last thing they wanted. All the same, the closer she kept them, the more they stole away what was hers.

Gabe was too smart to be as stupid as he was. He was clever enough to work at the edge of catastrophe, letting it get close, and then he’d get out of the way - and let it crash down on someone else. The first time he ran, Anna understood that he was young and afraid, and the second, when a posse came for him and took Cas instead, she knew he’d meant well. When Gabe was there, the place was noisy, full of laughter, alive with the growing number of men he was leading. But he’d always go again, taking them all with him, taking her younger brothers too, leaving Anna to answer the door to detectives and stare down her neighbors in town and eventually, to mourn boys buried in graves she couldn’t visit. And the look on his face, not the face of a man who was ever going to change, that’s what finally did it. Anna stopped making excuses for him.

No one ever knew Cas like she did, not in quite the same way. She and Cas loved each other because they were siblings, but they appreciated each other, too, as someone to depend on, the other half of their survival team. She knew the best part of Cas, hard-working, responsible, and warm too, in his own quiet way. And she also knew his dark side. When they first came back to Missouri, standing over the grave of the man he’d just shot in cold blood, he stared into her dry, hard eyes, and they understood each other.

She knew Cas inside and out, like he did her. They both chafed at the quiet farm life they led, and they were both drawn by Gabe’s outlaw stories. But that way out was only open for Cas. He saw the dangers as clearly as Anna, and he also knew from experience how hard it would be for her if he left her behind. He did it anyway. 

Anna wrote Cas letters until the day he died. From prison, he told her he wished he could have done things differently. Alfie, in particular, haunted him. But, he wrote, he never regretted turning outlaw, running with Gabe and Balt and those damn Winchesters. He knew he’d abandoned her, but that one thing, he couldn’t regret. And though she’s forgiven him everything else, and though she mourns him every day, Anna can’t help but resent him for that choice.

Balt didn’t have to stay in her ruined country. While everyone else was mourning their plight, settling for a second-rate kind of life, Balt saw something in it he loved, and he chose it freely. To him, Anna hadn’t fallen on hard times. She wasn’t a rapidly aging woman, offsetting an outlaw’s name with her own steely respectability and an undeniable trustworthiness when it came to paying the bills. He didn’t think of her as a potential mother to orphaned children, or someone who could help keep a store’s books, or even just a nice companion for old age. For whatever reason, Balt never wanted to pity, protect or make use of her. He wanted... her. And she was definitely not his consolation prize. 

Every day with him was the only day. All he wanted was to experience everything to the fullest, and his favorite experience was Anna. She could always feel his eyes on her, watching to see if she’d laugh at his jokes. He’d stand just a breath too close, so she could smell him - leather, sweat, and the hay in their barn he slept in. She wondered then what she smelled like to him. (“Soap,” he told her later, burying his face in her hair, “and heaven.”) Later, when he got bolder, he’d find ways to run a finger down her arm, across her back. When she finally said yes, he exhaled like she’d punched him, took her by the waist and kissed her until she ran out of air. Anna did marry for passion. And it was only a long time later, when his daily enjoyment and his masculine body had ceased to be exciting and flattering, that she realized the passion was only his.

Balthazar demanded nothing - and did nothing to stop any of it. He just followed her brothers, straight to his own doom. How lucky for her, then, that she never depended on him for anything. Some nights when her husband was an outlaw, he would emerge from the woods without warning, urgent and adoring, and yes, she loved him then. That doesn’t happen when your husband is a convict. But then, detectives don’t show up at night with bombs, either. And the days, they’re exactly as lonely as they always were.

If Alfie had lived, it would have been different. She doesn’t know how. But his death colored everything, and so his life would have, too. If they’d left her her boy... 

Not hers by birth, but still her flesh and blood, and by hard work, too, all the things a woman does that lay claim to a child in a way a man can never understand. She nursed him through illness, soothed him out of childhood nightmares, scolded manners into him, cooked almost every meal he ever ate, sewed and washed and mended all his clothes. If he didn’t sleep, she didn’t sleep. If he couldn’t eat, she certainly wasn’t going to. Even as he grew up, she knew the exact size and shape of him, the story behind every scar, had a hand in his strengths and kept the secrets of his weaknesses. He idolized his older brothers, and they taught him to shoot and spit and swagger, but she knew that he was hers, down deep where it counted, in the bones.

Other women have three children, or six, or nine, and not all of those live. They bury babies, toddlers, and fine young men in the graveyard, and they go on. In a different life, the one she was supposed to have, Anna might have done that. But then, she would have had maids, nannies, and the services of a doctor. Someone else would have done the dirty work. And in a way, though they would have come from her body, those imaginary children would have been less hers.

In the life that happened instead, Anna had only the one. With a husband as scarce as Balt, that one was all she was ever likely to have. And God, how she loved him. In a way it was inevitable, his death, the end result of a landslide that started with Gabe’s first robbery, or her father’s murder, or maybe back with a few shots fired in South Carolina. But in another way, in a way that she will never, ever be able to forget, or even come near to forgiving, these other three men, all the family she had, they took him from her and led him to his death. There aren’t words to describe the thing that’s missing in her heart. The only thing that comes close is a scream.

What’s the point? Anna’s done fighting. It never got her anywhere. But a woman’s got to eat, and for that, she needs a man.

His name is James. He’s fifty-one years old, and he’s a farmer - always was, back in Virginia, poor enough to hoe his own vegetables - and still will be when he makes it to California. Westward is freedom, sure, but not to do anything new, just to escape the old. He’s a veteran, of course, from one of the regular regiments, and when other men start to re-fight the war, he gets up and walks away. He’s done fighting, too.

There will be no children. They haven’t talked about it, of course, but his manner tells her so, the bloodless way he sits on the other side of his hotel table and talks to her without ever reaching for her hand. He’s had children, anyway. All but one are buried in red Virginia clay, along with their mother. They haven't spoken of this, either, and Anna knows they never will. To drag out the dead, even just in conversation - no, they understand each other in this. She carries her private graveyard, and he has his, existing gently side-by-side, and neither would dream of intruding. And this is also a form of affection.

Before she goes, Anna walks her land. She crosses over the broken old foundations at the top of the hill, between the rows of her crops, back and forth over the creaking boards of her house. And as she does, she tries to call back sweet memories. “Where was my childhood swing?” She remembers, but everything is overwritten with later bitterness. “Here, on the same tree where the posse hung my brother.” By the creek, in the woods where she hid for her life, she tells the land - and the past, her life, and everyone in it - “I loved you. It did no good. Goodbye.”

Finally, Anna gives in to her outlaw blood. She leaves like the rest of them, and boards a train headed west, with the man whose name she’s taken, quietly committing bigamy. And when the baby cries - his last, the reason he needed a wife - she picks up the girl that is to be her daughter.

Her name is Louisa, and she’s two. Soon, sooner than you think, she’ll be a young woman, and she’ll stand before the choice that every girl has to make, weigh the risks of the man against the costs of being without him. Maybe she'll meet a man who never plans but always smiles. Maybe she'll meet a grave farmer. But this time, she'll have something to fall back on. Not a wealthy father, or five brothers, all clever and bold - something more dependable. She’ll have Anna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shots fired in South Carolina" - the beginning of the Civil War, at Fort Sumter.


End file.
